STiEE 


OLD  BOOK 


GEORGE    B  ARNWELL: 


t  (  . 


BY    T.    S.    S  URR, 

Author  of  "  Splendid  Misery,"  "  Winter  in  London,"  &c. 


But  is  amusement  all  ? — Studious  of  song, 
And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 
I  would  not  trifle  merely,  though  the  world 
Be  loudest  in  their  praise,  who  do  no  more. 

COWPER. 


N  E  W  -  Y  0  R  K  : 
BURGESS,    STRINGER    &   CO 

1  845. 


HOBBS,  STEREOTYPER, 
41  Ann  Stre  e  t.- 


J.  D    BEDFORD, 
Power-Press  Printer. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


CUSTOM  has  long  established  the  right  of  drama- 
tists to  a  property  in  the  plots  and  characters  of  nov- 
elists; and  recent  instances  might  be  adduced  of 
novels  and  romances,  which  were  scarcely  suffered  to 
be  read,  ere  they  were  converted  into  dramas. 

The  equal  right  of  the  novelist  to  similar  tres- 
passes upon  dramatic  ground  cannot  be  contested : 
whether  the  exercise  of  that  right,  in  the  present 
instance,  will  be  as  favourably  received  by  the  pub- 
lic, their  voice  can  alone  determine. 

As  there  may  be  those,  however,  who,  acceding  to 
the  question  of  right,  yet  marvel  at  the  author's 
taste  in  the  selection  of  so  hackneyed  a  subject,  he 
begs  leave  to  state  the  motive  of  his  choice. 

Having  been  so  fortunate  as  to  be  present  at  Mrs. 
Siddons'  performance  of  Milwood,  he  was  so  agreea- 
bly surprised  by  the  novel,  yet  just  colouring,  which 
that  lady's  incomparable  talents  gave  to  a  character, 
till  then  deemed  insignificant,  that  he  determined, 
perhaps  rashly,  upon  the  present  undertaking. 

Such  readers,  as  have  seen  Milwood  personated  in 
the  usual  manner  only,  will  conclude,  that  the  copy 
attempted  in  the  following  pages  differs  too  much 
from  the  vulgar  openness  of  character  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  associate  with  the  original.  Such  as 


iv  ADVERTISEMENT. 

have  seen  Mrs.  Siddons'  performance  will,  he  hum- 
bly conceives,  form  a  contrary  opinion :  and  he  rests 
perfectly  at  ease  as  to  the  decision  of  the  best  judges 
respecting  the  preference  he  has  yielded  to  her  deline- 
ation of  Mihvood,  whose  most  extraordinary  pow- 
ers are  only  equalled  by  the  just  discrimination, 
which  directs  their  display. 

The  author  has  deviated  in  several  instances  from 
the  story  he  has  adopted ;  has  introduced  some  new 
characters,  and  changed  the  features  of  others  ;  yet, 
as  the  chief  incidents  are  preserved,  he  thought  it 
more  candid  to  retain  the  original  title,  than  to  in- 
vent a  new  one. 

Of  his  own  production,  he  would  only  observe, 
that  he  believes  the  design  is  novel,  and  respectfully 
submits  it  to  the  world,  merely  as  the  exercise  of  a 
mind  somewhat  contemplative,  in  those  evening 
hours  of  leisure,  which  the  duties  of  a  humble  des- 
tination in  life  occasionally  afford  him ;  and  by  no 
means  as  the  effort  of  a  competitor  for  literary  fame. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL. 


CHAPTER    I . 

As  into  air  the  purer  spirits  flow, 

And  sep'rate  from  their  kindred  dre:*s  below, 

So  flew  the  soul  to  its  congenial  place. — POPE. 

THE  eye  that  has  witnessed  the  peaceful  departure  of  a  just  man's 
spirit  in  the  presence  of  affectionate  relatives,  and  revering  friends, 
has  beheld  a  spectacle  solemnly  delightful,  and  awfully  interesting, 
beyond  all  power  of  description. — On  such  occasions  the  heart  trusts 
not  to  the  tongue's  feeble  utterance,  but,  rushing  to  the  counte- 
nance, there  delineates  its  emotion  in  a  language  without  words. 
Such  was  the  scene  at  the  rectory  of  Hanworth  :  its  worthy  incum- 
bent had  heard  with  resignation  the  opinion  of  his  physician,  that 
no  human  means  could  save  him.  Mortification  had  advanced  almost 
to  its  last  stage.  Yet,  though  he  felt  no  pangs  of  guilt,  no  dread 
of  future  worlds,  though  perfectly  resigned  to  die,  there  were  attrac- 
tions, whose  resistless  force  still  held  his  wishes  for  a  longer  life. 
Around  that  couch,  from  which  he  never  was  to  riss,  knelt  objects 
that  had  awakened  in  his  breast,  the  finest  feelings  of  a  husband, 
father,  friend. 

The  amiable  woman,  who  at  an  early  age  had  given  him  her 
hand,  and  with  it  the  worthiest  of  hearts,  too  deeply  afflicted  to 
weep,  gazed  alternately  on  her  expiring  husband,  and  on  those  who 
were  so  soon  to  be  the  orphan  pledges  of  his  love,  with  the  soul- 
piercing  wildness  of  despair. 

Their  son,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  held  his  father's  hand  clasped 
firmly  betwixt  both  his  own,  and  bent  his  face  over  it  to  conceal 
his  tears. 

A  daughter,  somewhat  younger,  with  tears  and  swelling  sighs, 
mingled  ejaculations  to  the  Deity  to  spare  a  life  so  dear. 

Leaning  his  head  against  the  foot-post  of  the  bed  stood  Dr.  Hill, 
the  benevolent  friend  and  skilful  physician  of  the  rector,  whose 
serene  countenance  he  appeared  contemplating  with  pleasure. 

"  I  could  have  wished  he  had  arrived — I  should  have  retired  from 
the  scenes  of  this  life  with  less  regret,  had  I  committed  these  my 
only  cares  to  his  kind  keeping,"  faintly  uttered  Mr.  Barn  well. 
"  But  his  own  good  heart,"  continued  he,  "  will  suggest  to  hiia 
all  I  could  have  said." 

It  was  his  brother  to  whom  he  alluded,  who  entered  the  room  as 
he  was  speaking.  His  appearance  changed  the  scene. — Mrs.  Barn- 


8  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

•well,  Eliza,  and  George,  clung  round  his  knees,  and  seemed  to  hail 
him  as  the  messenger  of  joy  ;  but  it  was  a  momentary  joy.  Sir 
James  had  been  anxiously  expected,  and  his  arrival,  as  it  ended  that 
anxiety,  occasioned  a  momentary  impulse  of  pleasure.  But  no 
sooner  did  the  melancholy  cause  of  his  visit  recur,  than  silence  and 
sorrow  ensued. 

Sir  James,  after  a  pause,  approached  his  dying  brother,  and  an 
affecting  farewell  took  place.  Tears  rolled  down  the  pallid  cheek 
of  the  worthy  rector,  as  he  pressed  his  brother's  hand,  and  cast  a 
meaning  look  upon  his  family.  He  sunk  exhausted  on  his  pillow. 

"  Think  of  this  world  no  more,  my  brother,"  said  Sir  James  : 
"  from  this  moment  this  is  my  wife — these  are  my  children — and 
all  I  have  is  theirs  !" 

"  My  God  !    I  thank  thee,"  exclaimed  the  rector,  and  expired. 


CHAPTER    II. 

These  thoughts,  my  father,  ev'ry  spot  endear, 

And  whilst  I  think,  with  self-accusing  pain, 

A  stranger  shall  possess  the  lov'd  domain. 
In  each  low  wind  I  seem  thy  voice  to  hear  I 
Yet,  oh  !  poor  cottage — and  thou  sylvan  shade — 

Remember  ere  1  left  your  coverts  green, 
Where  in  my  youth  I  mus'd — in  childhood  play'd, 

I  gaz'd,  I  paus'd,  I  dropp'cl  »  tear  unseen, 
(That  bitter  from  the  fount  of  memory  fell,) 
Thinking  on  him  wiio  rear'd  you — now  farewell ! — BOWLES. 

WHEN  the  first  effusion  of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  friends  is  ex- 
hausted, and  grief  begins  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason,  there  are 
certain  arguments  which  custom  almost  invariably  applies  on  such 
occasions;  such  as,  that — "  we  must  all  die," — that  "  our  loss  is 
their  gain," — that  "  sorrow  is  useless,  and  tears  cannot  restore  them 
to  us." 

-Sometimes  it  happens  that  Prudence  steps  kindly  in  with  some 
such  counsel  as  this — "  that  though  a  husband  or  a  father  is  gone, 
it  is  a  comfortable  consideration  that  his  widow  or  his  children  enjoy 
the  fruits  of  his  industry  and  economy ;  and  that,  instead  of  grieving 
for  a  calamity  that  is  past,  it  were  better  to  rejoice  in  the  blessings 
that  remain." 

Such  are  the  reflections  that  soothe  the  breasts  of  many  an  heir, 
and  many  a  widow,  beneath  the  sable  show  of  sorrow  ;  who  oft- 
times,  by  their  cheerful  countenance,  wisely  endeavour  to  dissipate 
the  gloom  occasioned  by  the  escutcheon  that  darkens  the  window 
of  their  ball  room,  and  the  black  equipage  that  conveys  them  to 
the  opera — 

"Thus  bear  about  the  mockery  of  wo 
To  midnight  dances  and  the  public  show  !" 

The  family  of  the  Barn  wells,  inheriting  from  the  rector  little 
else  than  his  good  name,  were  in  no  danger  of  insulting  his  mem- 


GEORGE      BARNWELL.  0 

ory  by  a  joyful  display  of  his  wealth  ;  nor  would  their  grief  hare 
been  lessened  by  the  possession  of  thousands.  Every  branch  of 
this  bereaved  family  was  sensible  of  the  loss  it  had  sustained ,  and 
felt,  when  the  violence  of  grief  was  abated,  a  regret  more  calm  in- 
deed, but  not  less  sorrowful. 

Sir  James  was,  perhaps,  the  individual  among  them  who,  pos- 
sessing the  least  sensibility,  was  the  least  affected  ;  not  that  the 
knight  was  deficient  in  those  feelings  which  are  the  honourable  ap- 

Eendages  of  humanity,  but  he  was  older  than  Mrs.  Barnwell  by  at 
jast  ten  years,  and  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  a 
counting  house,  and  on  the  Royal  Exchange  ;  which,  though  cer- 
tainly the  schools  where  industry  may  learn  an  honourable  way  to 
its  rewards,  cannot  be  deemed  the  most  favourable  soil  for  the 
growth  of  those  sensibilities  which,  though  not  virtues  themselves, 
are  at  least  Virtue's  faithful  allies. 

Sir  James  was  the  first,  therefore,  to  call  the  attention  of  his 
sister-in-law  from  the  tomb  which  held  her  affections,  to  those  du- 
ties which  she  owed  to  society,  to  her  children,  to  herself. 

"  I  am  a  lone  man,"  said  the  knight,  "  and,  by  the  blessing  of 
heaven  upon  honest  endeavours,  have  accumulated  more  than  I 
shall  ever  spend.  My  brother,  I  know,  accumulated  in  another 
way — his  stock  was  the  treasure  of  the  mind — a  proper  posses- 
sion, doubtless,  for  a  clergyman,  but  for  which  his  heirs  are  little 
or  nothing  the  better. 

"  After  the  loss  you  have  sustained,  my  sister,"  continued  the 
knight,  "  I  am  sure  your  inclination  is  to  quit  this  place  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  insist  on  a  visit  to  my  old  mansion,  where  we  may 
leisurely  discuss  the  plan  I  have  in  contemplation  to  make  us  all 
happy." 

A  proposal  so  perfectly  congenial  to  her  wishes  was  readily  ac- 
cepted by  Mrs.  Barnwell,  and  a  day  was  named  for  their  departure  ; 
but  whilst  herself  and  Eliza  impatiently  desired  that  day's  arrival, 
George  deprecated  its  approach.  To  quit  for  ever  his  native  home, 
cost  his  young  heart,  which  was  the  shrine  of  sensibility,  some  strug- 
gles. Among  the  various  objects  that  called  reflection  to  its  pleas- 
ing, painful  task,  there  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  garden  a  small  tem- 
ple, built  in  the  Gothic  style,  and  dedicated  to  retirement.  This 
was  constructed  under  the  direction  of  George  himself,  and  was 
the  favourite  retreat  of  the  rector.  To  this  place  young  Barnwell 
would  frequently  retire,  where  memory  would  rehearse  to  him  those 
lessons,  to  which  he  had  often  listened  with  reverent  attention — 
and,  aided  by  fancy,  would  place  his  father's  countenance  and  form 
before  him. — As  he  strolled  round  the  grounds,  in  one  place  a 
plant,  in  another  some  little  monument  with  classical  quotation, 
would  remind  him  of  the  pleasing  employment  of  his  past  hours. 

"  Days  of  happiness! — hours  of  hope, — farewell!"  exclaimed 
the  youth  :  "  and  you,  sweet  home,  where  first  the  light  of  heaven 
beamed  upon  these  eyes — farewell  !  Oh,  you  have  cheated  me, 
false  Hope !  How  often  has  my  sainted  father,  too,  added  false 


8  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

well,  Eliza,  and  George,  clung  round  his  knees,  and  seemed  to  hail 
him  as  the  messenger  of  joy  ;  but  it  was  a  momentary  joy.  Sir 
James  had  been  anxiously  expected,  and  his  arrival,  as  it  ended  that 
anxiety,  occasioned  a  momentary  impulse  of  pleasure.  But  no 
sooner  did  the  melancholy  cause  of  his  visit  recur,  than  silence  and 
sorrow  ensued. 

Sir  James,  after  a  pause,  approached  his  dying  brother,  and  an 
affecting  farewell  took  place.  Tears  rolled  down  the  pallid  cheek 
of  the  worthy  rector,  as  he  pressed  his  brother's  hand,  and  cast  a 
meaning  look  upon  his  family.  He  sunk  exhausted  on  his  pillow. 

"  Think  of  this  world  no  more,  my  brother,"  said  Sir  James  : 
"  from  this  moment  this  is  my  wife — these  are  my  children — and 
all  I  have  is  theirs  !" 

"  My  God  !    I  thank  thee,"  exclaimed  the  rector,  and  expired. 


CHAPTER    II. 

These  thoughts,  my  father,  ev'ry  spot  endear, 

And  whilst  1  think,  with  self- accusing  paiu, 

A  stranger  shall  possess  the  lov'd  Domain. 
In  each  low  wind  I  seem  thy  voice  to  hear  ! 
Yet,  oh  !  poor  cottage — and  thou  sylvan  shade — 

Remember  ere  I  left  your  coverts  green, 
Where  in  my  youth  I  inus'd — in  childhood  play'd, 

I  gaz'd,  I  paus'd,  I  dropp'd  a  tear  unseen, 
(That  bitter  from  the  fount  of  memory  fell,) 
Thinking  on  him  who  rear'd  you — now  furewell ! — BOWLES. 

WHEN  the  first  effusion  of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  friends  is  ex- 
hausted, and  grief  begins  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  reason,  there  are 
certain  arguments  which  custom  almost  invariably  applies  on  snch 
occasions  ;  such  as,  that — "  we  must  all  die," — that  "  our  loss  is 
their  gain," — that  "  sorrow  is  useless,  and  tears  cannot  restore  them 
to  us." 

•  Sometimes  it  happens  that  Prudence  steps  kindly  in  with  some 
such  counsel  as  this — "  that  though  a  husband  or  a  father  is  gone, 
it  is  a  comfortable  consideration  that  his  widow  or  his  children  enjoy 
the  fruits  of  his  industry  and  economy ;  and  that,  instead  of  grieving 
for  a  calamity  that  is  past,  it  were  better  to  rejoice  in  the  blessings 
that  remain." 

Such  are  the  reflections  that  soothe  the  breasts  of  many  an  heir, 
and  many  a  widow,  beneath  the  sable  show  of  sorrow  ;  who  oft- 
times,  by  their  cheerful  countenance,  wisely  endeavour  to  dissipate 
the  gloom  occasioned  by  the  escutcheon  that  darkens  the  window 
of  their  ball  room,  and  the  black  equipage  that  conveys  them  to 
the  opera — 

"  Thus  bear  about  the  mockery  of  wo 
To  midnight  dances  and  the  public  show  !" 

The  family  of  the  Barnvvells,  inheriting  from  the  rector  little 
else  than  his  good  name,  were  in  no  danger  of  insulting  his  mem- 


GEORGE      BARNWKLL.  0 

ory  by  a  joyful  display  of  his  wealth  ;  nor  would  their  grief  have 
been  lessened  by  the  possession  of  thousands.  Every  branch  of 
this  bereaved  family  was  sensible  of  the  loss  it  had  sustained ,  and 
felt,  when  the  violence  of  grief  was  abated,  a  regret  more  calm  in- 
deed, but  not  less  sorrowful. 

Sir  James  was,  perhaps,  the  individual  among  them  who,  pos- 
sessing the  least  sensibility,  was  the  least  affected  ;  not  that  the 
knight  was  deficient  in  those  feelings  which  are  the  honourable  ap- 
pendages of  humanity,  but  he  was  older  than  Mrs.  Barnwell  by  at 
least  ten  years,  and  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  a 
counting  house,  and  on  the  Royal  Exchange  ;  which,  though  cer- 
tainly the  schools  where  industry  may  learn  an  honourable  way  to 
its  rewards,  cannot  be  deemed  the  most  favourable  soil  for  the 
growth  of  those  sensibilities  which,  though  not  virtues  themselves, 
are  at  least  Virtue's  faithful  allies. 

Sir  James  was  the  first,  therefore,  to  call  the  attention  of  his 
sister-in-law  from  the  tomb  which  held  her  affections,  to  those  du- 
ties which  she  owed  to  society,  to  her  children,  to  herself. 

"I  am  a  lone  man,"  said  the  knight,  "  and,  by  the  blessing  of 
heaven  upon  honest  endeavours,  have  accumulated  more  than  I 
shall  ever  spend.  My  brother,  I  know,  accumulated  in  another 
way — his  stock  was  the  treasure  of  the  mind — a  proper  posses- 
sion, doubtless,  for  a  clergyman,  but  for  which  his  heirs  are  little 
or  nothing  the  better. 

"  After  the  loss  you  have  sustained,  my  sister,"  continued  the 
knight,  "  I  am  sure  your  inclination  is  to  quit  this  place  as  soon  as 
possible.  I  insist  on  a  visit  to  my  old  mansion,  where  we  may 
leisurely  discuss  the  plan  I  have  in  contemplation  to  make  us  all 
happy." 

A  proposal  so  perfectly  congenial  to  her  wishes  was  readily  ac- 
cepted by  Mrs.  Barnwell,  and  a  day  was  named  for  their  departure ; 
but  whilst  herself  and  Eliza  impatiently  desired  that  day's  arrival, 
George  deprecated  its  approach.  To  quit  for  ever  his  native  home, 
cost  his  young  heart,  which  was  the  shrine  of  sensibility,  some  strug- 
gles. Among  the  various  objects  that  called  reflection  to  its  pleas- 
ing, painful  task,  there  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  garden  a  small  tem- 
ple, built  in  the  Gothic  style,  and  dedicated  to  retirement.  This 
was  constructed  under  the  direction  of  George  himself,  and  was 
the  favourite  retreat  of  the  rector.  To  this  place  young  Barnwell 
would  frequently  retire,  where  memory  would  rehearse  to  him  those 
lessons,  to  which  he  had  often  listened  with  reverent  attention — 
and,  aided  by  fancy,  would  place  his  father's  countenance  and  form 
before  him. — As  lie  strolled  round  the  grounds,  in  one  place  a 
plant,  in  another  some  little  monument  with  classical  quotation, 
would  remind  him  of  the  pleasing  employment  of  his  past  hours. 

"  Days  of  happiness! — hours  of  hope, — farewell!"  exclaimed 
the  youth  :  "  and  you,  sweet  home,  where  first  the  light  of  heaven 
beamed  upon  these  eyes — farewell  !  Oh,  you  have  cheated  me, 
false  Hope !  How  often  has  my  sainted  father,  too,  added  false 


12  GEORGE      B  A  RN  WELL. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Miss  Lucas,  "have  yon  among  other  things 
been  taught  a  knowledge  of  the  holy  Scriptures?" 

"My  father,  madam,  was  a  clergyman,"  said  George,  with  a 
degree  of  warmth  :  "  and  I  was  intended  for  the  same  holy  office  ;" 
added  he,  with  an  emphatic  sigh. 

"Then,  pray,"  said  Miss  Lucas,  without  feeling  the  rehuke, 
"  do  you  believe  the  story  of  the  witch  of  Endor?" 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Sir  James;  "but  it  is  a  custom  I 
have  established  at  my  own  table,  these  thirty  years,  never  to  per- 
mit the  discussion  of  religious  or  political  subjects  over  the  bottle. 
1  beg  leave,  therefore,  to  propose  a  walk." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"The  passions  affect  the  mind  with  greater  strength  when  we  are  asleep  than  when 
we  are  awake — Joy  and  sorrow  give  us  more  vigorous  sensations  of  pain  or  pleasure 
at  this  time  than  at  any  other." — ADDISON. 

WHY  is  curiosity  most  easily  raised,  or  why  most  unquietly  does 
it  rest  in  the  female  breast? 

Eliza,  whose  modesty  did  not  permit  her  to  trouble  the  company 
with  her  observations,  yet  treasured  in  her  memory  all  that  had  been 
said  concerning  the  abbey. 

When  she  retired  to  her  chamber,  the  windows  of  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  ruins,  she  questioned  the  servant  who  attended 
her  concerning  the  story  of  the  haunted  aisle.  The  incongruous 
narrative  of  Hannah  served  only  to  increase  her  curiosity,  and  she 
determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  abbey  the  following  morning  before 
breakfast. 

Sleep  did  not  conquer  the  senses  of  Eliza,  that  evening,  with  its 
usual  ease.  She  had  extinguished  her  candle,  had  whispered  a 
prayer  from  the  heart,  and  sought  repose.  A  slight  slumber  brought 
with  it  the  following  dream — 

"  She  had  reached  the  abbey  ruins,  and  was  just  entering  the 
haunted  aisle,  when  a  tomb,  which  stood  at  the  entrance,  seemed  to 
rock  at  her  approach.  Whilst  hesitating  whether  to  retire  or  advance, 
the  tomb  became  enveloped  in  an  ascending  vapour.  In  a  moment 
the  abbey  ruins  echoed  the  groans  of  one  in  the  agonies  of  death ; 
and,  as  the  vapour  dispersed,  there  appeared  kneeling  on  the  tomb 
a  most  beautiful  female,  naked  to  the  waist.  Her  eyes  were 
swollen  with  weeping,  her  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  from  her 
wounded  breast  blood  trickled,  whilst  her  hands  in  vain  attempted 
to  remove  a  dagger,  whose  fatal  point  was  buried  in  her  bosom. 
Eliza's  attention  to  the  spectre  was  so  intense,  that  she  did  not  notice 
the  form  of  a  man  who  stood  contemplating,  with  smiles,  the  ago- 
nies of  the  female,  until  the  sound  of  a  harp,  which  he  touched  in 
a  rapid  manner,  aroused  her.  His  figure  was  handsome,  his  com- 
plexion a  dark  brown,  and  jet  black  hair  curled  in  ringlets  on  his 


GEORGE     B  A  RNWELL.  13 

forehead  :  his  voice,  which  accompanied  the  harp,  was  melodious. 
Listening  to  his  lively  strain,  Eliza  was  smitten  with  horror  and 
astonishment  at  the  following  rhapsody — 

Finn-  softly — gently — vital  stream; 

1  c  crimsou  life-drops,  stay  ; 
Indulge  me  with  this  pleasing  dream 
Through  an  eternal  day. 

See — see — my  soul,  her  agony  ! 

See  how  her  eye-balls  glare; 
Those  shrieks,  delightful  harmony, 

Proclaim  her  deep  despair  1 

Rise — rise — infernal  spirits,  rise, 

Swift  dart  across  her  brain  : 
Thou,  Horror,  with  blood-chilling  cries. 

Lead  on  thy  hideous  train. 

O,  feast,  my  soul — revenge  is  sweet ; 

Louisa,  take  my  scorn  ; — 
Curs'd  was  the  hour  that  saw  us  meet, 

The  hour  when  we  were  born  ! 

Scarcely  was  the  last  stanza  sung,  when  the  trembling  Eliza 
awoke  from  her  dream  ;  doubting,  for  a  considerable  time,  whether 
what  she  had  seen  or  heard  was  not  reality.  Just  as  she  had  over- 
come the  impressions  arising  from  so  horrible  a  vision,  the  nigi.fc 
wind  wafted  by  the  casement  of  her  chamber  the  tone  of  an  inslru- 
mimt,  so  similar  to  those  she  had  heard  in  fancy,  that,  starting  up 
in  her  bed,  she  drew  aside  the  curtain,  under  an  apprehension  of 
beholding,  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 

The  chamber  was  in  total  darkness  ;  but  the  same  sounds  were 
repeated  ;  and,  hearing  them  now  more  distinctly,  her  heart  sunk 
with  terror  at  the  certainty.  She  determined  to  quit  her  bed.  and, 
feeling  her  way  to  the  window,  opened  it.  The  same  sounds  were 
heard  again,  yet  more  distinctly,  and  she  was  convinced  they  came 
from  the  abbey  ruins.  She  bent  her  eyes  towards  the  spot  whence 
thny  issued  :  in  a  few  moments  all  was  silence,  and  she  beheld  c. 
lighted  torch  borne  along  the  ruins,  but  the  night  was  too  dark  to 
discern  the  person  that  carried  it. 

Returning  to  her  bed,  terrified  and  astonished,  she  began  to  reason 
with  her  fears.  That  the  music  was  not  imaginary  she  was  con- 
vinced ;  arid  that  its  influence,  added  to  the  impression  of  Hannah's 
incoherent  narrative,  which  bore  a  resemblance  to  her  dream,  had 
occasioned  the  vision,  she  no  longer  doubted  ;  yet  not  less  strange 
appeared  the  reality  than  the  vision.  For  what  purpose  any  one 
could  ramble  among  the  mouldering  tombs  of  the  abbey,  she  hc.d 
yet  to  learn.  Fear,  at  length,  gradually  retired  from  her  breast ; 
but  its  most  constant  companion,  Curiosity,  remained. 


12  GEORGE     BARNW  ELL. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Miss  Lucas,  "have  you  among  other  things 
been  taught  a  knowledge  of  the  holy  Scriptures  V 

"  My  father,  madam,  was  a  clergyman,"  said  George,  with  a 
degree  of  warmth  :  "  and  I  was  intended  for  the  same  holy  office  ;" 
added  he,  with  an  emphatic  sigh. 

"  Then,  pray,"  said  Miss  Lucas,  without  feeling  the  rebuke, 
"  do  you  believe  the  story  of  the  witch  of  Endor?" 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Sir  James;  "but  it  is  a  custom  I 
have  established  at  my  own  table,  these  thirty  years,  never  to  per- 
mit the  discussion  of  religious  or  political  subjects  over  the  bottle. 
1  beg  leave,  therefore,  to  propose  a  walk." 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"The  passions  affect  the  mind  with  greater  strength  when  we  are  asleep  than  when 
we  are  awake — Joy  and  sorrow  give  us  more  vigorous  sensations  of  pain  or  pleasure 
at  this  time  than  at  any  other." — ADDISON. 

WHY  is  curiosity  most  easily  raised,  or  why  most  unquietly  does 
it  rest  in  the  female  breast  ? 

Eliza,  whose  modesty  did  not  permit  her  to  trouble  the  company 
with  her  observations,  yet  treasured  in  her  memory  all  that  had  been 
said  concerning  the  abbey. 

When  she  retired  to  her  chamber,  the  windows  of  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  ruins,  she  questioned  the  servant  who  attended 
her  concerning  the  story  of  the  haunted  aisle.  The  incongruous 
narrative  of  Hannah  served  only  to  increase  her  curiosity,  and  she 
determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  abbey  the  following  morning  before 
breakfast. 

Sleep  did  not  conquer  the  senses  of  Eliza,  that  evening,  with  its 
usual  ease.  She  had  extinguished  her  candle,  had  whispered  a 
prayer  from  the  heart,  and  sought  repose.  A  slight  slumber  brought 
with  it  the  following  dream — 

"  She  had  reached  the  abbey  ruins,  and  was  just  entering  the 
haunted  aisle,  when  a  tomb,  which  stood  at  the  entrance,  seemed  to 
rock  at  her  approach.  Whilst  hesitating  whether  to  retire  or  advance, 
the  tomb  became  enveloped  in  an  ascending  vapour.  In  a  moment 
the  abbey  ruins  echoed  the  groans  of  one  in  the  agonies  of  death ; 
and,  as  the  vapour  dispersed,  there  appeared  kneeling  on  the  tomb 
a  most  beautiful  female,  naked  to  the  waist.  Her  eyes  were 
swollen  with  weeping,  her  hair  was  dishevelled,  and  from  her 
wounded  breast  blood  trickled,  whilst  her  hands  in  vain  attempted 
to  remove  a  dagger,  whose  fatal  point  was  buried  in  her  bosom. 
Eliza's  attention  to  the  spectre  was  so  intense,  that  she  did  not  notice 
the  form  of  a  man  who  stood  contemplating,  with  smiles,  the  ago- 
nies of  the  female,  until  the  sound  of  a  harp,  which  he  touched  in 
a  rapid  manner,  aroused  her.  His  figure  was  handsome,  his  com- 
plexion a  dark  brown,  and  jet  black  hair  curled  in  ringlets  on  his 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  13 

forehead  :  his  voice,  which  accompanied  the  harp,  was  melodious. 
Listening  to  his  lively  strain,  Eliza  was  smitten  with  horror  and 
astonishment  at  the  following  rhapsody — 

Flow  softly — gently — vital  stream ; 

Vc  crimson  life-drops,  stay  ; 
Indulge  me  with  this  pleasing  dream 

Through  an  eternal  day. 

See — see — my  soul,  her  agony  1 

Sec  how  her  eye-balls  glare; 
Those  shrieks,  delightful  harmony, 

Proclaim  her  deep  despair  1 

Rise— rise — infernal  spirits,  rise, 

Swift  dart  across  her  brain : 
Thou,  Horror,  with  blood-chilling  cries, 

Lead  on  thy  hideous  train. 

O,  feast,  my  soul— revenge  is  sweet ; 

Louisa,  take  my  scorn  ; — 
Curs'd  was  the  hour  that  saw  us  meet, 

The  hour  when  we  were  born  I 

Scarcely  was  the  last  stanza  sung,  when  the  tremhling  Eliza 
awoke  from  her  dream  ;  doubting,  for  a  considerable  time,  whether 
what  she  had  seen  or  heard  was  not  reality.  Just  as  she  had  over- 
come the  impressions  arising  from  so  horrible  a  vision,  the  night 
wind  wafted  by  the  casement  of  her  chamber  the  tone  of  an  instru- 
ment, so  similar  to  those  she  had  heard  in  fancy,  that,  starting  up 
in  her  bed,  she  drew  aside  the  curtain,  under  an  apprehension  of 
beholding,  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 

The  chamber  was  in  total  darkness  ;  but  the  same  sounds  were 
repeated  ;  and,  hearing  them  now  more  distinctly,  her  heart  sunk 
with  terror  at  the  certainty.  She  determined  to  quit  her  bed.  and, 
feeling  her  way  to  the  window,  opened  it.  The  same  sounds  were 
heard  again,  yet  more  distinctly,  and  she  was  convinced  they  came 
from  the  abbey  ruins.  She  bent  her  eyes  towards  the  spot  whence 
thny  issued  :  in  a  few  moments  all  was  silence,  and  she  beheld  a 
lighted  torch  borne  along  the  ruins,  but  the  night  was  too  dark  to 
discern  the  person  that  carried  it. 

Returning  to  her  bed,  terrified  and  astonished,  she  began  to  reason 
wilh  her  fears.  That  the  music  was  not  imaginary  she  was  con- 
vinced ;  and  that  its  influence,  added  to  the  impression  of  Hannah's 
incoherent  narrative,  which  bore  a  resemblance  to  her  dream,  had 
occasioned  the  vision,  she  no  longer  doubted  ;  yet  not  less  strange 
appeared  the  reality  than  the  vision.  For  what  purpose  any  one 
could  ramble  among  the  mouldering  tombs  of  the  abbey,  she  had 
yet  to  learn.  Fear,  at  length,  gradually  retired  from  her  breast ; 
but  its  most  constant  companion,  Curiosity,  remained. 


14  GEORGE     BARNWSLt. 


CHAPTER    V. 

Nature  well  known,  no  prodigies  remain  : 
Comets  are  regular,  and  Wlnirton  plain. — POPE. 

"  THERE  is  a  very  singular  coincidence  of  your  dream  with  the 
music  you  really  hearJ,"  said  George  to  his  sister,  who  had  unbur- 
dened her  mind  to  him,  according  to  her  usual  practice.  "  Do  you 
remember  enough  of  the  place  you  supposed  was  the  abbey,  to 
compare  what  you  saw  in  your  dream  with  the  ruins  them- 
selves?" 

"  Beyond  a  doubt,"  said  Eliza. 

"  We  will  take  a  ramble  there  in  the  evening,"  replied  George ; 
"  and  should  there  be  a  tomb  in  the  old  aisle  resembling  that  in 
your  dream,  I  think  we  should  relate  the  whole  to  Sir  James. 
"  Murder,"  added  he,  "  is  a  crime,  above  all  others,  offensive  to 
the  Deity;  and,  if  ever  the  Omnipotent  displays  a  miracle,  I  can 
conceive  of  nothing  more  likely  to  occasion  his  supernatural  inter- 
ference than  detection  of  so  foul  a  crime." 

They  separated.  At  dinner  they  joined  a  numerous  circle  of  the 
neighbouring  gentry.  It  was  the  custom  of  Sir  James,  once  a 
year,  to  invite  them  all  without  exception.  At  other  times  he  in- 
dulged his  pleasure  in  a  selection.  On  this  occasion  he  relinquish- 
ed his  prejudices,  and  though  himself  a  whig  of  the  old  school,  and 
a  high  churchman,  there  were  at  his  table  individuals  of  as  various 
a  cast,  as  a  circuit  often  mile*  round  contained. 

Among  these  visitors,  there  was  one  most  opposite  to  the  worthy 
knight  in  his  principles  and  his  manners,  and  whose  residence  was 
contiguous  to  Sir  James's. 

By  the  opposite  to  a  whig  used  to  be  formerly  understood  a  tory  ; 
and  by  the  opposite  to  high-church,  low-church  was  suggested. 
Now  Mr.  Mental  was  neither  whig  nor  tory,  nor  a  high  nor  a  low 
churchman  ;  yet  were  his  principles  more  at  variance  with  Sir 
James  than  a  Jacobite  presbyter's  :  the  latter  only  differed  with  the 
knight  as  to  the  person  of  a  king  and  the  modes  of  religion.  Mr. 
Mental  was  supposed  to  be  equally  averse  to  all  kings,  and  to  all 
religion. 

As  his  figure  and  dress  were  the  most  singular  imaginable,  they 
rendered  him  conspicuous  in  all  companies.  He  was  of  a  large 
make,  but  thin  ;  his  face  pale ;  his  hair,  a  coal  black,  cropped 
short  in  the  neck  ;  his  dress,  always  the  same,  a  suit  of  plain  brown 
cloth.  He  would  eat  nothing  that  had  ever  enjoyed  life  :  nothing 
in  which  sugar  was  an  ingredient ;  and  his  drink  was  water.  He 
never  smiled  ;  and  the  only  pleasure  he  ever  appeared  to  enjoy,  was 
the  triumph  of  argument.  To  obtain  this  pleasure,  he  would  con- 
stantly controvert  the  most  allowed  truths ;  delighted  in  attacking 
revelation,  and  was  indefatigable  in  discovering  the  scruples  of  his 
hearers  on  religious  points. 

The  irremediable  evils  of  society  were  his  dearest  topics,  and  the 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  15 

climax  of  his  felicity  was,  by  the  abuse  of  the  eloquence  he  pos- 
sessed, to  render  discontent  triumphant. 

He  had  resided  in  the  neighbourhood  many  years,  but  saw  no 
company  at  his  own  house,  and  very  rarely  accepted  an  invitation 
to  any  other:  whenever  he  did,  it  was  his  invariable  custom  to  sin- 
gle out  one  from  the  younger  part  of  a  company,  with  whom  he 
would  abruptly  begin  a  conversation. 

George  and  a  young  baronet,  of  one-and-twenty,  were  engaged 
in  some  trifling  discourse,  when  Mr.  Mental  tapped  the  latter  on 
the  shoulder,  and  asked  him  if  he  had  read  a  celebrated  novel,  much 
talked  of. 

"  I  never  read  novels,"  said  the  baronet. 

"  Why  not?"  asked  Mr.  Mental. 

"  It  is  throwing  away  one's  tune,  to  say  the  best,"  replied  the 
baronet.  "  I  make  a  point  never  to  read  any  thing  of  that  sort.  I 
never  read  a  novel  in  my  life,  and  I  never  will :  they're  well  enough 
for  girls." 

"  Prejudice — prejudice — prejudice — how  art  thou  worshipped  in 
this  isle  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Mental.  "  I  suppose,  then,  you  plunge 
a  pretty  good  depth  in  literature  of  a  more  abstruse  or  erudite  na- 
ture?" continued  he.  "Have  you  looked  into  the  Political  Justice?" 

"  I  make  a  point  never  to  read  works  of  that  description  ;  I  un- 
derstand its  object  is  to  turn  every  thing  topsy-turvy  ;  and  I  feel  no 
sort  of  inclination  to  be  made  giddy.  I  leave  this  sort  of  thing  to 
your  revolutionists." 

"Prejudice  again,"  cried  Mental. — "Perhaps,  then,  you  dive 
into  the  mines  of  science.  You  read " 

"  Oh,  no,  believe  me,  not  I.  1  was  obliged  to  do  something  in 
that  way  at  Pembroke.  But  I've  done  with  lectures  completely ; 
and,  to  own  the  truth,  the  only  science  I  care  about  now,  is,  to 
make  an  estate  of  ten  thousand  a  year  bring  me  happiness  in  the 
way  I  like  it." 

"  I  crave  your  pardon  then,"  said  Mr.  Mental.  "  Had  I  known 
yon  were  in  the  possession  of  ten  thousand  a  year,  I  should  by  no 
means  have  suspected  you  guilty  of  possessing  a  mind." 

"  Is  there  no  prejudice  in  that  observation,  sir?"  said  Barnwell, 
with  a  smile  of  modest  diffidence. 

Mr.  Mental,  instead  of  answering,  fixed  a  pair  of  large  black 
eyes  on  George ;  and,  folding  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  examined 
every  feature  of  his  countenance.  After  a  considerable  pause 

"  You,  I  believe,  do  not  possess  ten  thousand  a  year,"  cried  he  ; 
"  but  if  I  am  not  much,  indeed,  deceived,  you  have  materials  of 
which  a  skilful  artist  might  form  a  great  mind.  Allow  me  to  ask 
yon — have  you  a  father?" 

George  gave  an  expressive  look. 

"  He  has  left  you — did  I  know  him? — was  he  of  these  parts?" 

Georsre  satisfied  his  curiosity. 

"  Unfortunate  !  unfortunate,  indeed  !"  continued  Mental,  "  that 
such  materials  should  have  fallen  into  such  hands.  You  of  course 


16  GCORGBBARNWELL. 

endeavour  to  compel  your  reason  to  adopt  all  those  doctrines  which 
priestcraft  teaches." 

"  Sir,"  replied  Barn  well,  with  a  glow  of  indignation  on  his 
cheeks,  "  the  honoured  person  to  whom,  without  knowing  him, 
you  apply  a  common-place  epithet,  never  strove  to  inspire  a  sen- 
timent in  the  breast  of  his  children,  to  which  the  most  enlightened 
reason  could  object." 

"  You  rejoice  me,"  cried  Mental — "  You  have  not  then  imbibed 
the  jargon  of  superstition,  called  religion."* 

"  Superstition  and  religion  in  your  dictionary,  then,  are  synony- 
mous terms,"  cried  Barn  well. 

"  In  the  dictionary  of  truth  they  are  so,"  replied  Mental. 
"  What  is  religion — but  ceremony,  or  a  set  of  ceremonies  :  what 
are  ceremonies,  but  superstition  !  For  instance,  how  absurd,  how 
degrading  to  a  human  being,  with  faculties  so  comprehensive  that 
all  nature  bows  before  him,  to  which  she  unfolds  her  secrets  and 
submits  her  laws — I  say  then  it  must  be  beneath  the  dignity  of 
such  a  creature  to  bend  his  knees,  to  bow  his  head,  and  mumble 
syllables  of  absurdities  strung  together  centuries  ago,  when,  by  the 
exercise  of  his  own  powers,  he  might  be  introduced  into  the  arcana 
of  great  Nature  herself." 

George  replied — "  The  dignity  of  human  nature,  sir,  is  no  new 
subject  to  me.  My  father  taught  it  me  truly,  and  exemplified  his 
doctrines  by  his  conduct.  He  taught  me,  sir,  that  the  dignity  of 
our  nature  cannot  be  degraded  by  a  public  acknowledgment  of  our 
obligations  to  the  Author  of  nature,  according  to  the  customs  and 
manners  of  our  country;  and  that  it  is  better  to  sanction,  by  ex- 
ample, even  prejudices,  which  cannot  be  momentarily  and  safely 
removed,  than  by  ridiculing  those  institutions,  which  the  mass  of 
our  fellow-citizens  hold  sacred,  to  give  the  reins  to  uncultivated 
nature." 

"  There  is  a  vein  of  independence  in  your  reasoning  I  admire 
extremely,  however  much  we  may  deviate  in  our  conclusions," 
said  Mental. 

This  introduction  led  to  a  long  conversation,  in  which  each 
seemed  to  take  an  interest.  Mental  appeared  less  and  less  disgust- 
ing in  the  eyes  of  George,  and  George  delighted  old  Mental,  who 
expressed  a  wish  that  this  would  not  be  the  last  of  their  conversations. 

"  You  are  an  inmate  of  Sir  James's,  I  presume,"  said  he. 

"  For  the  present,"  said  Barnwell ; — "  but  in  a  week  or  two  I 
shall  quit  this  place  for  London." 

"  For  London  !"  cried  Mental.  "  What  takes  you  to  that  focus 
of  corruption  and  folly?" 

"  My  uncle  has  most  generously  entered  into   a  treaty  with  a 

*  Some  readers  may  deem  it  an  impertinent  interruption,  if  not  an  impeachment  of 
their  understanding's,  to  be  reminded  "  that  the  sentiments  which  are  put  into  the 
mouths  of  various  personages  in  a  novel,  are  for  the  illustration  of  their  various  char- 
acters, and  ought  never  to  be  viewed  in  any  other  light."  Rut  the  author  would  rather 
incur  the  blame  of  an  unnecessary  interruption,  than  suffer  the  possibility  of  a  sup- 
position that  it  was  his  wish  to  disseminate  principles  which  it  is  his  aim  to  destroy. 


GEORGE     BARNWEtL.  17 

merchant  there,  a  share  of  whose  concern  is  to  become  mine,  after 
the  usual  initiation." 

"A  merchant!"  exclaimed  Mental. — "Can  you  confine  your 
capacities  then  to  the  boundaries  of  a  counting-house  leger — and 
condemn  your  noble  faculties  to  calculations  of  courses  of  ex- 
change] Have  you  thought  what  you  are  about  ?" 

"  I  believe  I  have  thought  too  much  about  it,"  replied  George. 
"  To  speak  candidly,  I  have  been  at  no  small  pains  to  make  a 
match  betwixt  duty  and  inclination  ;  but  the  latter  receives  the 
addresses  of  the  former,  even  yet,  but  coolly." 

"  Mr.  Barnwell,"  said  Mental,  earnestly,  "  as  you  value  your 
happiness  for  life,  reflect — now  is  that  important  moment,  in  the 
period  of  your  existence,  that  will  gild  with  pleasure,  or  darken 
with  discontent,  every  scene  as  yet  behind  the  veil  of  time.  I  feel 
a  lively  interest  in  your  welfare ;  and ,  if  you  can  trust  yourself 
with  me  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  I  will  venture  to  say  you  will  not 
regret  it." 


CHAPTER    VI. 

And  when  they  talk  of  him  they  shake  their  heads, 
And  whisper  one  another  in  the  ear. — SIIAKSFFRE. 

A  SUMMER  day  drew  towards  its  close — carriage  after  carriage 
had  rolled  away  the  well-pleased  guests  of  the  worthy  knight,  and 
silence  once  more  reigned  in  the  temple  of  hospitality. 

While  Eliza,  with  a  palpitating  heart,  accompanied  her  brother 
to  the  haunted  aisle  the  impressions  of  terror  revived  in  her  breast 
as  they  entered  the  avenue  from  the  park,  which  led  directly  to  the 
ruins. — They  were  at  the  entrance  of  the  aisle — Eliza  trembled — 

"Stay,"  said  George;  "it  is  dark,  and  we  are  far  from  the 
house.  A  thought  strikes  me — I  have  little  dread  of  ghosts — but 
it  is  not  impossible  that  this  retreat  may  be  the  rendezvous  of  be- 
ings less  merciful,  and  more  powerful  than  mere  spectres.  Were 
w«  to  be  attacked,  our  loudest  cries  would  reach  no  friendly  ear. — 
Do  you  wait  a  moment  behind  this  old  column,  and  listen  atten- 
tively. I  will  go  on.  Should  there  be  danger,  you  will  hear  my 
cries,  (they  shall  be  loud  enough,)  and  immediately  run  as  fast  as 
possible  towards  the  house — it's  a  straight  road,  and  you  cannot 
miss  it." 

When  George  had  resolved  on  any  purpose,  he  always  adhered 
to  it.  Remonstrance  on  the  score  of  his  personal  danger  was  in 
vain,  and  the  anxious  Eliza  clung  round  the  pillnr  in  trembling  ex- 
pectation. A  few  minutes  elapsed — Eliza  grew  impatient.  A  few 
minutes  more  passed  away — no  noise  was  heard — no  brother  re- 
turned. The  whole  space  of  time  was  less  than  ten  minutes — but 
how  much  longer  it  appeared  in  the  reckoning  of  suspense,  is  easily 
conceived. 


18  GEORGE     BARNWELIi. 

At  length  she  heard  a  distant  sound  of  footsteps ; — it  approached 
nearer — she  left  her  retreat,  thinking  to  meet  her  brother ;  when 
a  form,  muffled  in  a  long  black  cloak,  and  masked,  met  her  at  the 
entrance  of  the  aisle.  She  screamed — In  an  instant  George  was 
at  her  elbow ;  but  the  cause  of  her  alarm  was  vanished. 

"  Surely  I  cannot  be  deceived,"  said  George.  "  'Twas  certain- 
ly a  man — I  saw  him  most  distinctly.  A  black  cloak  and  a  mask 
were  lying  on  the  very  tomb  you  have  described.  As  I  approached 
it,  a  man,  who  was  kneeling  near  it,  started  up,  hurried  on  the 
cloak  and  mask,  and,  presenting  a  pistol,  spoke  these  remarkable 
words — '  I  am  discovered  ?'  Ere  I  had  recovered  from  my  surprise 
he  vanished." 

"  Foi  Heaven's  sake,  my  dear  brother,  let  us  quit  this  situation  : 
it  may  be  the  abode  of  murderers,"  said  Eliza. 

They  walked  swiftly  towards  the  house — •"  There  are  so  many 
singular  circumstances  combined  in  this  adventure,"  said  George, 
"  that  T  am  determined  to  relate  the  whole  affair  to  Sir  James. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  home  ;  the  family  were  assembled 
at  supper,  and  the  looks  of  Eliza  answered  the  purpose  of  a  pre- 
face to  George's  narrative. 

"  Now  young  gentleman,  said  Mr.  Sandall,  triumphantly,!  sup- 
pose you  concede  a  little  of  your  scepticism  against  apparitions." 

"  Not  a  scruple,"  said  George. 

"  What !  will  you  allow  nothing  supernatural  in  the  dream  of 
Miss  Barnwell — nothing  supernatural  in  the  description  she  gives 
of  the  tomb  she  never  beheld  ?" 

"True,"  said  George,  "  she  never  beheld  this  tomb  ;  but  Han- 
nah has  seen  it,  and,  in  describing  it  to  my  sister,  so  impressed  the 
image  on  her  mind,  that  it  is  impossible  to  doubt  the  origin  of  her 
dream." 

"  Did  Hannah,  too,  impress  her  mind  with  the  poem  she  so  well 
remembered?" 

"  Hannah  told  me  a  confused  story,  something  similar  in  its  cir- 
cumstances to  those  in  my  dream,"  said  Eliza. 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  Sir  James,  "  stories  of  this  nature  fre- 
quently repeated  ;  bul,  till  now.  I  own,  I  never  paid  a  serious  atten- 
tion to  them.  What  has  happened,  however,  determines  me  to 
take  some  active  measures  towards  unravelling  the  apparent  mys- 
tery. In  the  morning  I  will  myself  see  the  place,  and  examine  its 
appearances." 

In  the  morning  the  knight,  with  a  numerous  train  of  attendants, 
sallied  forth  to  survey  the  haunted  aisle.  He  was  supported  on  his 
right  hand  by  the  superstitious  Mr.  Sandall ;  on  his  left  by  Barn- 
well.  A  few  armed  domestics  preceded  them.  Arrived  at  the 
entrance  of  the  aisle,  Mr.  Sandall  paused. 

"  If  I  might  advise,"  said  he,  "the  servants,  I  conceive,  should 
first  search  the  place,  for  they  are  armed." 

"  But  what  are  arms  against  incorporeal  substances,  Mr.  San- 
dall?" said  George.  "  Besides,  we  can  take  the  arms  which  the 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  19 

servants  carry,  who  may  wait  here,  and  be  within  call,  if  their 
assistance  is  wanted." 

"  Foolish  scheme  enough !"  said  Sandall,  terrified  in  no  small 
degree. 

"  Suppose,"  continued  George,  "  some  demon  really  tenants  the 
old  tomb,  what  do  the  servants  know  of  exorcising  ?  Come,  sir,  let 
us  enter.  I'll  take  this  musket,  and  if  the  inhabitants  are  formed 
of  tangible  stuff,  a  bullet  may  be  useful,  in  case  of  attack  ;  on  the 
other  hand,  should  they  be  spiritual  residentiaries,  I  shall  turn  them 
over  to  the  discipline  of  the  church." 

"  Not  so  much  levity,"  said  Sir  James.  "  I  apprehend  no  dan- 
ger ;  but  there's  no  telling — so  go  on  :  Joseph,  we'll  proceed — as 
we  set  out." 

Some  minutes  passed  in  the  most  profound  silence.  Nothing 
was  heard,  nothing  was  seen,  that  could  justify  the  most  distant 
conjecture.  George  could  hardly  refrain  smiling,  and  in  his  heart 
exclaimed — "  /  would  this  solemn  mockery  were  ended;"  but  his 
uncle's  reproof  was  yet  recent.  At  length — 

"  Are  you  sure  you  saw  upon  this  tomb,  this  very  tomb,  a  mask 
and  a  cloak?"  said  Sir  Jafhes :  "that  you  also  saw  a  man  kneel 
near  this  tomb — saw  him  rise — put  on  the  mask  and  cloak? — Are 
you  perfectly  convinced  no  part  of  this  was  imagination?" 
"  I  am  sure  I  saw  all  that  you  have  stated." 
"  'Tis  very  strange  !"  said  Sir  James. 
"  Very  strange  !"  said  every  one. — 

"  Could  not  this  tomb  be  moved  ?"  said  George.  "  Were  we  in 
the  forests  of  Germany,  T  should  be  induced  to  think,  from  circum- 
stances, that  it  covers  the  trap-door  of  some  subterraneous  cavern." 
"  Ah,  sir,"  said  Joseph,  an  old  domestic  of  the  knight's,  "  you 
have  hit  the  right  nail  on  its  head  now.  To  be  sure  it's  no  business 
of  mine  ;  but  if  I  were  a  magistrate — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Joseph — What  would  you  do  if  you  were  a 
magistrate?"  said  the  knight,  in  a  breath. 

"  Why,  might  I  be  bold  to  speak  the  truth,  I  do  think  murder 
lies  hid  under  this  here  moniment;  and,  if  I  was  a  magistrate,  it 
should  be  all  pulled  down,  and  dug  under ;  and  my  life  on  it,  but 
murder  lies  at  the  bottom." 

"  That  can't  be  done  without  the  consent  of  the  owner,"  said  Sir 
James,  "  or  some  better  grounds  of  suspicion  than  we  have  at 
present." 

"  Do  you  not  own  the  ruins,  sir?"  said  George. 
"  Not  this  part  of  them,"  said  the  knight.     "  All  the  land  on 
this  side  the  row  of  alder  trees  belongs  to  the  next  estate." 
"  And  who  owns  that?"  asked  George. 

"  Mr.  Mental,  the  cynic  you  saw  yesterday.  What  do  you 
start  at?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  replied  George,  hesitating ; — "  but — Mr.  Mental 
— is — a  strange  man." 


20  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

"  Ah,  God  forgive  him,  if  all  they  say  be  true,"  cried  old  Joseph, 
with  an  expressive  shake  of  the  head. 

"  God  can't  forgive  him,"  cried  Sandall :  "  he's  an  atheist." 

"  He  is  a  singular  man,  undoubtedly,"  said  Sir  James  :  "  and 
people  will  talk.  Nobody,  it  seems,  knows  who  or  what  he  is,  or 
where  he  came  from.  But  1  have  heard  old  men,  who  remember  his 
first  coming  here,  whisper  strange  stories." 

George  was  ruminating — After  another  fruitless  search  they 
returned  home. 

A  variety  of  conjectures  presented  themselves  to  the  fertile  imagi- 
nation of  George,  all  pointed  to  Mr.  Mental.  He  now  conceived, 
that  the  man  he  had  seen  the  preceding  evening  was  Mr.  Mental. 
He  imagined  the  voice  he  had  heard  resembled  Mr.  Mental's,  and 
built  upon  these  impressions  a  suspicion  to  the  disadvantage  of  his 
character.  Quickly  again  his  heart  rebuked  him  for  so  illiberal  a 
conclusion  from  a  train  of  mere  accidents.  He  recollected  his  invi- 
tation, and  resolved  immediately  to  visit  him.  Unwilling  to  awake 
those  suspicions  in  the  breast  of  another,  which  he  was  himself 
ashamed  of  cherishing,  he  determined  to  keep  his  visit  a  secret  from 
the  family  ;  and  merely  observed,  that,  a,s  he  wished  to  take  a  long 
stroll,  it  was  doubtful  if  he  should  return  before  evening. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

Oh,  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit 
Might  never  reach  me  more  I COWPER. 

THE  residence  of  Mr.  Mental  was  a  short  distance  from  Sir 
James's.  It  was  a  large,  old  fashioned  house,  containing  many 
rooms  ;  of  these,  only  three  were  in  use ;  one  served  as  a  kitchen 
and  chamber  for  an  old  woman,  his  only  domestic ;  a  second  was  a 
sitting,  eating,  and  sleeping  room  of  her  master  ;  and  the  third  was 
a  study. 

George  rung  the  bell  at  the  iron  gate,  which  opened  on  a  plot  of 
ground  before  the  house,  that  was  formerly  a  lawn.  In  its  present 
neglected  state  it  would  be  difficult  to  call  it  by  any  name  that 
would  convey  an  idea  of  its  appearance. 

The  above-named  old  dame  appeared  at  a  window,  and  demand- 
ed the  business  of  Barnwell.  Having  informed  her  master,  George 
was  admitted.  Wading  through  "  weeds  most  rank  and  vile,"  he 
had  at  length  found  himself  in  the  aforesaid  sitting  room,  where 
Sarah  told  him  that  her  master  would  come  to  him. 

After  some  time  most  patiently  occupied  in  contemplating  the 
motley  furniture  of  the  apartment,  and  a  few  ejaculations  of  surprise 
at  so  strange  a  mode  of  life,  George  ventured  to  call  old  Sarah,  and 
ask  if  her  master  was  particularly  engaged;  if  so,  he  would  take 
another  opportunity  of  seeing  him. 


GEORGE      BARNWELL.  21 

"  As  to  that,  come  when  you  will,  he's  always  at  his  studies," 
said  Sarah. 

"  Shall  I  g-o  to  him?"  said  George. 

"  God  forbid !"  exclaimed  Sarah — "  Go  into  the  study  ! — I  have 
been  here  these  twenty  years,  and  no  living  soul  but  master  has 
been  in  that  study." 

Every  moment  the  curiosity  of  George  was  increased,  and  he 
felt  a  great  inclination  to  chat  with  Sarah  concerning  her  master, 
when  tlie  original  himself  appeared.  George  gazed  earnestly  at 
him  as  he  entered,  but  could  observe  nothing  in  his  countenance 
that  in  the  least  sanctioned  his  suspicions  :  there  was  no  embar- 
rassment, but  an  air  of  solemn  ease,  a  kind  of  look  that  indicated 
a  familiarity  with  grief. 

"  And  you  are  really  come  !"  exclaimed  he.  "  Is  it  the  spur  of 
curiosity  that  has  urged  you  to  this  compliance  ?  Come,  be  honest, 
sir.  You  wondered,  doubtless,  how  an  old  fellow,  like  myself, 
could  at  first  sight  be  smitten  with  an  attachment  to  your  counte- 
nance. Sir,  I  have  read  the  wondrous  volume  of  this  world. — I 
have  been  amongst  men — I  have  bustled  in  the  crowd.  I  have 
also  been  secluded  from  the  herd:  and,  in  silent  musings  of  full 
many  a  year,  I  have  contemplated  the  strange  variety  of  human 
nature — Perhaps  there  is  no  passion,  no  impulse  of  the  mind,  that 
I  have  not  experienced — Man  is  familiar  to  me — I  know  the  whole 
machine — its  movements — and  the  nature  of  the  materials  of  which 
it  is  composed.  Often  by  the  countenance  men  are  deceived.  I 
may  be  so.  If  I  am  not,  you  have  an  honest  mind  ;  by  which  I 
mean,  that  you  are  sincere;  that  your  tongue  utters  what  your 
heart  prompts,  and  your  reason  dictates.  Now  tell  me,  sir,  what 
kind  of  man  you  think  me." 

"  Forming  my  judgment  solely  on  appearances,  I  should  suppose 
you  a  disappointed  man  ;  one  whom  misfortunes  have  induced  to 
quarrel  with  the  world." 

The  very  notions  I  should  have  entertained,  had  I  seen  my  pres- 
ent resemblance  at  your  age  ;  for  then  I  viewed  mankind  through 
the  same  fairy  telescope  that  you  do  now.  Then  my  delighted 
fancy  saw  such  guests  on  earth  as  Sympathy,  Friendship,  and 
Love  :  my  heart  hailed  them  for  its  own  ,  it  panted  for  inmates  so 
necessary  to  its  health  and  peace,  and  like  you  I  should  have 
thought  that  man  unfortunate  who  missed  the  bliss  around  him. 
But  "  Vis  delusion  all.'"  Apathy  is  the  icy  ruler  of  the  hearts  of 
men — interest  destroys  all  social  union,  and  sinks  the  master  pas- 
sion of  the  human  soul  below  the  appetites  of  brutes.  Oh,  young 
man,  distrust — distrust  thy  fellows  ;  suspect  the  tear  of  sympathy, 
refuse  the  hand  of  friendship  ;  and  should  some  siren  voice  tell  thee 
of  love,  fly  from  the  serpent,  that  only  charms  to  kill.  There  is  no 
sympathy,  no  friendship,  no  love,  amongst  the  apostate  race  of 
man.  Do  I  not  know  it ! — have  I  not  felt  it ! — " 

The  gesture  that  accompanied  this  apostrophe  was  that  of  the  ex- 


22  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

tremest  anguish.  George  was  affected,  and  Mental  saw  the  emo- 
tion he  had  excited. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  he,  "  I  mean  not  to  insinuate,  that  I  am  pe- 
culiarly wretched — 'Tis  the  common  lot — the  destiny  of  man — to 
be  deceived,  to  hope  and  be  deceived  again — Just  as  an  infant  who 
sees  the  rising  bubble,  that  his  breath  has  formed,  burst  as  it 
ascends,  will  still  pursue  another.  But  this  is  a  sombre  discourse 
to  a  young  man  just  stepping  into  life,  and  by  no  means  the  sub- 
ject on  which  I  wished  to  speak  to  you.  You  have  received,  I 
think,  a  liberal  education." 

George  here  expatiated  on  the  benefits  he  had  received  from  the 
tuition  of  his  father  in  most  lively  colours. 

"  Your  father  must  have  been  a  man  of  erudition ;  and  not  only 
so,  but  a  man  of  taste  and  feeling.  Do  you  imagine  he  would  have 
approved  of  your  entering  into  commercial  concerns?" 

"  His  intentions  were  very  opposite." 

"  And  I  believe  your  inclinations  are  the  same." 

"  I  cannot  conceal  the  truth  ;  they  certainly  are." 

"Are  you  aware  of  the  consequences  of  entering  upon  a  plan  of 
life,  where  your  duties  and  interests  will  excite  a  perpetual  rebel- 
lion of  intellect,  and  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  unite  the  cultiva- 
tion of  those  mental  powers  you  possess  with  a  respectable  progress 
in  business?" 

"  I  have  thought  on  this  ; — again  and  again  have  thought  on  it 
— but  what  can  I  do?  The  will  of  my  benefactor,  of  my  mother, 
o'erpoises  all  other  considerations.  To  refuse  the  bounty  of  the 
former  would  offend  him,  and  render  miserable  a  most  excellent 
mother.  I  must  therefore  entreat  your  forbearance  on  this  subject, 
however  much  I  am  obliged  by  your  generous  intentions." 

"  Nay,  I  will  not  forbear.  Would  you  see  a  passenger  approach 
a  lion's  den,  from  which  you  had  escaped,  and  think  it  un polite  to 
interrupt  him?  Nor  will  I,  who  have  experienced  the  miseries  I 
see  you  running  after,  suffer  any  motive  to  stifle  Caution's  voice. 
When  you  shall  feel  shackle's  weight  upon  your  prisoned  mind ; 
when  the  aspiring  soul  shall  lift  its  wing  to  soar  in  vain  ;  then, 
youth,  you  will  know  the  importance  of  this  moment. 

"  If  the  detail  would  not  be  tiresome,  there  are  particulars  in  my 
own  experience,  that  might,  perhaps,  teach  you  a  lesson.  I  have 
not,  for  many  years  talked  of  myself  to  others ;  but  if  you  would 
not  hold  your  time  ill  spent  in  listening  to  my  tale " 

"  I  should  ill  deserve  so  great  a  favour,  sir,"  interrupted  Barn- 
well,  "  if  I  could  estimate  its  worth  no  better." 

"  I  did  not  expect  your  compliment,  nor  do  I  admire  it,"  said 
Mental;  "  I  merely  obey  an  impulse,  which  would  be  painful  to 
resist,  in  this  mark  of  my  regard  for  you.  You  have  a  heart  of 
sensibility  ;  you  have  a  mind  superior  to  your  years.  Don't  think 
I  compliment  now,  for  it  is  matter,  in  my  imagination,  rather  of 
condolence  than  congratulation.  But  to  my  story. 


*EORGEBARNWELL.  23 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

"It  is  rather  singular,  that  none  but  Princes  and  Monsters  have  the  privilege  of  ex- 
citing curiosity  at  their  birth.  A  man  of  genius  is  dropt  among  the  people,  and  has 
first  to  encounter  the  difficulties  of  ordinary  men,  without  that  confined  talent  which 
is  adapted  to  a  mean  destination." — D'ISBAELI  en  the  Literary  Character. 

"  THE  father  of  the  man  you  see  before  you,"  said  Mental,  "  was 
a  tradesman.  He  was  unfortunate  in  the  concerns  he  undertook, 
somewhat  negligent  in  consequence  of  misfortunes,  and,  at  last, 
broken-hearted  with  disappointment,  sunk  poor  to  the  grave. 

"  My  mother  had  gone  there  long  before,  when  I  was  little  more 
than  five  years  old.  My  parents  had  brought  up  several  of  their 
children  to  the  period  of  youth  ;  but  at  the  demise  of  my  father  I 
was  their  only  offspring  living. 

"  It  may  be  well  to  remark  to  you  a  few  traits  of  my  earliest 
years,  as,  peradventure,  you  may  somewhere  trace  a  resemblance. 
I  remember  perfectly  well,  that,  when  only  four  years  old,  it  was 
frequently  my  amusement  to  mount  upon  a  chair,  arrayed  in  my 
mother's  white  apron,  and  assembling  round  me  my  younger  bro- 
thers, an  old  woman  their  nurse,  and  my  mother,  to  preach  with 
considerable  vehemence. 

"  The  prediction  concerning  me  at  that  period  elevated  my  future 
fate  to  a  mitre.  After  my  mother's  decease,  I  went  three  or  four 
times  with  a  relation  to  the  theatres,  and  I  still  recollect  the  won- 
derful impulse  I  felt  to  leap  upon  the  stage,  and  join  the  performers. 

"A  similar  sensation  often  seized  me  at  church,  where  I  always 
wished  myself  in  the  pulpit.  I  know  now  that  this  was  ambition 
in  embryo  ;  and  had  my  parent's  situation  in  life  placed  an  army 
within  my  early  views,  I  doubt  not  I  should  have  felt  the  same  im- 
pulse to  have  seized  the  truncheon  from  a  general,  as  I  did  to  dis- 
place the  clergyman  from  his  pulpit,  or  thrust  the  performer  from 
the  stage. 

"  At  seven  years  old  I  possessed  all  the  gravity  of  a  sage.  The 
pastimes  of  other  boys  were  my  aversion.  Books  of  all  descriptions 
that  came  within  my  reach  I  read,  but  not  with  that  delight  that 
animated  me  in  scribbling  over  every  piece  of  paper  I  could  procure, 
with  what  I  called  my  studies.  The  effusions  were  generally  of  a 
similar  nature  with  the  book  I  had  last  read  ;  and  of  course  I  was  a 
theologian,  a  dramatist,  a  poet,  and  a  novelist,  in  turn.  Nothing, 
however,  at  this  period  was  a  greater  treat  to  me,  than  to  be  per- 
mitted to  remain  at  the  table  after  dinner,  when  the  other  children 
were  sent  to  play  that  I  might  listen  to  the  discourse  of  my  elders. 

' '  My  bodily  frame  was  such  as  may  be  expected  from  an  indul- 
gent mode  of  bringing  up  in  a  city,  and  my  own  sedentary  inclin- 
ation weak  and  delicate.  This  consideration  induced  my  father,  for 
some  time,  to  object  to  placing  me  in  a  public  seminary,  where  a 
relation  offered  to  provide  for  me.  Poverty,  however,  advancing 
rapidly  towards  his  humble  dwelling,  and  quickening  its  pace,  after 


24  GEORGE      B  A  RNWELL. 

domestic  economy  had  quitted  it  with  my  mother,  made  him  soon 
accept  the  offer  of  his  cousin. 

'•  I  left  my  native  roof  ere  I  was  eight  years  old,  and  became  a 
member  of  the  celebrated  public  school  at  Eton.  This  I  esteem  the 
first  grand  era  in  my  life.  A  public  seminary  is  a  little  republic, 
where  the  honours  and  advantages  of  the  community  lie  open  to  all ; 
and  in  no  other  soil  can  the  seeds  of  ambition  be  so  well  cultivated. 
Soon  was  the  spark  of  emulation  felt  within  my  bosom,  infusing  en- 
ergy and  vigour  into  every  action.  The  middling  classes  beheld  me, 
with  envy,  pass  their  ranks,  and  the  highest  wondered  at  my  swift 
approach.  Success  urged  fresh  endeavours,  and  ere  I  had  attained 
my  thirteenth  year,  I  was  qualified  for  the  university  ;  where  I 
already  was  in  fancy,  struggling  for  academical  distinctions. 

"  Just  before  my  fourteenth  birth  day,  was  the  second  grand  era 
in  my  life.  My  father  died  insolvent.  A  letter  from  his  cousin, 
my  benefactor,  acquainted  me  that  in  consequence  of  some  consid- 
erable failures  in  his  speculations,  his  fortune  was  much  lessened, 
and  that  he  could  not  fulfil  his  intentions  of  supporting  me  at  the 
university ;  adding,  that,  as  I  was  now  of  an  age  to  go  into  the 
world,  he  wished  me  to  think  of  some  trade  I  should  like. 

"  You,  Mr.  Barnwell,  can  conceive  my  feelings ;  I  cannot  de- 
scribe them.  In  the  first  moments  of  my  disappointment,  rage  con- 
quered reason,  and  I  considered  my  benefactor  worse  than  an  as- 
sassin. '  My  God  !'  exclaimed  I,  '  is  he  not  a  murderer  1  Has  he 
not  made  me  the  parent  of  the  fondest  hopes,  the  brightest,  dearest 
expectations  ?  Did  he  not  himself  beget  these  dreams  of  bliss  which 
I  have  cherished?  and  now,  with  a  word,  he  murders  every  hope  !' 
—  Trade! — my  soul  sickened  at  the  sound.  Apprentice! — horror 
was  in  the  word,  and  every  hope  of  happiness  vanished  from  my 
sight.  In  another  moment  different  feelings  agitated  me.  My 
warm,  romantic  fancy  could  not  at  once  relinquish  the  views  it  had 
fostered.  Pride  aided  fancy ;  and  I  persuaded  myself  that,  were 
my  genius  but  known,  it  would  most  certainly  be  patronised.  I  re- 
solved to  write  to  a  celebrated  nobleman,  at  that  time  a  patron  of 
literature.  The  same  evening  on  which  I  received  my  cousin's  let- 
ter, I  wrote  one  for  this  nobleman,  intending  to  send  it  the  follow- 
ing morning ;  but  in  the  morning  my  mind  was  in  a  different  frame. 

"  I  resolved  to  see  my  benefactor.  He  was  an  opulent  trades- 
man and  resided  in  the  metropolis.  '  You  have  received  my  letter, 
Henry,'  said  he.  '  I  am  sorry  you  should  be  disappointed  in  your 
views,  though  I  have  not  a  doubt  but  you  will  do  much  better  in 
trade,  than  by  drudging  all  your  lifetime  over  books.  Have  you 
any  choice?' 

"  '  None  that  I  can  follow  now,  sir.  I  have  indulged  a  hope  that 
my  industry  at  college  might  possibly  have  recommended  me — ' 
'To  be  some  great  man's  toad-eater,'  interrupted  he.  'Is  that 
what  you  mean  ? — It  could  do  nothing  else  for  you.  The  church 
is  absolutely  beset  with  hungry  suppliants.  There's  no  arriving  at 
the  bar  without  a  fortune  ;  and  as  to  physic,  a  man's  talents  will 


GEORGE     B  A  RNWELL.  25 

never  recommend  him  to  a  patient,  if  he  keeps  no  carriage.  I  wish 
to  be  your  friend,  Henry  ;  and  I  think  I  know  how  : — it  must  be 
by  placing  you  in  such  a  situation,  as,  however  disagreeable  it  may 
appear  on  enteiing,  will  lead  you  to  independence.' 

"  I  began  now  seriously  to  reflect  upon  the  truth  of  these  observ- 
ations. I  recollected  I  was  speaking  to  the  only  friend  I  had  on 
earth  ;  and  though  my  pride  suffered  a  severe  wound,  my  judg- 
ment was  improved  in  my  own  estimation. 

"  After  a  pause,  I  yielded  my  assent  to  the  truth  of  his  observa- 
tions, and  expressed  a  wish  that  I  could  write  a  fine  hand,  as  it 
might  possibly  be  in  his  power  to  procure  me  a  genteel  situation  in 
some  merchant's  counting-house. 

"  He  smiled  at  my  wish — '  You  are  in  the  same  error  there,' 
said  he.  '  I  believe  no  set  of  men  labour  more,  in  general,  than 
persons  of  that  description  ;  and  what  is  their  reward  ? — a  clean 
shirt,  and  a  shining  pair  of  shoes  ?  which  is  pleasant  enough  for  a 
young  man  in  his  teens.  But  think  of  the  situation  of  such  men  if 
they  marry — if  they  live  to  old  age  !  A  mechanic,  who  earns  fif- 
teen shillings  a  week,  is  a  prince  to  them.  1  by  no  means  control 
you  :  if  you  think  genteel  misery  desirable,  you  will  be  a  mer- 
chant's clerk.' 

"  I  was  humbled  in  my  own  sight ;  my  heart  no  longer  throbbed 
in  the  expectations  that  had  delighted  it  ;  I  felt  it  sinking,  and  a 
passive  acquiescence  in  his  sentiments  was  the  consequence. 

"  We  parted,  with  a  promise  from  him  to  send  me  the  address  of 
a  grocer  the  next  day,  on  whom  I  was  to  wait  as  my  future  master. 

"  My  colleagues  at  school  saw  an  alteration  in  my  countenance, 
and  soon  discovered  my  future  destiny  ;  which  attracted  the  scorn 
of  some,  the  pity  of  many. 

"  Instead  of  sleeping  that  night,  my  mind  was  busily  employed 
in  contrasting  the  real  with  the  fancied  situation  that  was  to  suc- 
ceed my  school  days.  My  thirst  for  literature  was  never  more  to 
be  indulged,  but  conquered.  Ah  !  fatal  delusion  !  I  thought  it 
might  be  conquered — But  hear  me,  Mr.  Barnwell — and  would  to 
God  all  men  might  hear  me — the  thirst  of  knowledge  is  occasioned, 
sir,  by  an  unquenchable  spark,  and  must  be  gratified,  or  will  con- 
sume. Imagine  not  I  mean  to  sanction  idleness,  which  oft  as- 
sumes the  mark  of  genius,  but  is  not,  cannot  be  allied  to  it.  Im- 
agine not  that  I  would  sanction  restlessness  of  mind,  which  scowls, 
dissatisfied,  at  its  own  lot,  and  covets  every  other.  Imagine  not 
that  I  approve  that  morbid  sensibility,  so  oft  mistook  by  its  posses- 
sors for  heaven-born  genius — by  no  means  !  But  if  the  soul  per- 
ceives within  itself  that  active  principle,  which  ease  nor  gain  can 
satisfy  ;  which,  almost  overlooking  common  things  and  common 
duties,  soars  into  the  regions  of  sublime  inquiry  ;  and  creative  fan- 
cy, gazing  with  eagle  eye  even  on  the  source  of  light — Oh  !  then  let 
him  who  feels  the  heavenly  guest  obey  its  sacred  voice  ; — for  I, 
who  have  contended  with  its  power,  know  that  genius  is  not  to  be 
subdued ! 


26  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  Let  such  a  man  resist  the  natural  impulse  he  will  feel  to  yield 
his  inclinations  to  the  well  meant,  but  fatal,  advice  even  of  pa- 
rents. Let  no  commands,  no  tears,  no  supplications,  even  of 
mother,  bias  him.  Let  sincerity  be  his  guide,  and  firmness  of  mind 
his  staff,  and  his  pilgrimage  will  grow  pleasanter  in  his  progress  : 
but  if,  to  dry  a  momentary  tear,  or  escape  a  momentary  pang,  he 
submits  to  smother  genius,  he  seals  his  own  misery,  and  deceives, 
besides  himself,  his  friends.  I  did  so  ;  and  mark  my  history. 

"  I  waited  on  Mr.  Nutting,  the  grocer.  He  received  me  in  a 
little  room  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  where  Mrs.  Nutting  was  sitting. 
They  appeared  plain,  plodding  sort  of  folks,  remarkably  neat  in  their 
dress,  and  precise  in  their  discourse.  After  a  variety  of  questions, 
Mr.  Nutting  inquired  if  I  was  sensible  of  the  importance  of  an  in- 
terest in  the  merits  and  sufferings  of  our  blessed  Saviour.  I  cannot 
describe  the  astonishment  this  question  occasioned  me.  Mr.  Nut- 
ting saw  my  surprise — 

"  '  Well,  well,'  said  he,  '  I  see  you  have  not  been  brought  up 
with  a  proper  sense  of  your  eternal  welfare.  It  is,  however,  a  great 
mercy  that  you  have  been  directed  to  this  roof,  where  you  will  have 
the  benefit  of  instruction  and  example  in  the  right  road.  You  may 
tell  Mr.  Darwall  (the  name  of  my  benefactor)  that  I  like  you  very 
well,  and  shall  be  ready  to  receive  you  to-morrow  ;  aud  after  a 
month's  trial  you  may  be  bound.' 

"  Every  necessary  was  provided  for  me  at  Mr.  Darwall's  ex- 
pense, and  1  bade  farewell  with  a  sigh,  to  my  school  and  my  school 
companions. 

"  I  passed  my  month  of  probation. — Night  after  night,  as  I  laid 
my  head  upon  the  pillow  I  meditated  upon  my  situation  ;  and 
strong  was  the  straggle  betwixt  what  I  esteemed  my  duty  and  my 
inclination. 

"  Often  would  the  swell  of  independence  elevate  my  mind  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  most  impracticable  scheme  ! — As  often  would 
a  sense  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  Darwall,  as  well  as  an  implicit  faith  in 
his  assurances  that  my  present  (almost  intolerable)  situation 
would  lead  to  future  ease  and  comfort,  baffle  the  suggestions  of 
my  romantic  fancy. 

"  Thus,  sir,  were  the  embers  of  genius  damped,  and  the  power- 
ful energies  of  a  thinking  mind  depressed  by  the  duties  of  a  mean 
destination.  The  progress  of  my  tale  will  show,  that  totally  to  ex- 
tinguish the  former,  or  destroy  the  latter  is  beyond  the  power  of 
circumstances,  while  the  senses  remain  unimpaired." 


GKORGEBARNWELL.  S7 


CHAPTER    IX. 


-The  high-born  soul 


Disdains  to  rest  her  heav'u-aspiring  wing 
Bcucath  its  native  quarry. — ARENSIDK. 

£<  THE  menial  offices  which  my  situation  compelled  me  to  per- 
form, at  first  were  grating  to  my  pride  ;  but  I  soon  discovered  that 
to  be  a  false  pride,  and,  by  degrees,  became  its  master.  I  could 
stand  behind  the  counter  and  chop  sugar  without  feeling  the  shame 
of  a  mean  action  ;  but  I  was  often  roused  from  a  reverie  by  my 
master,  when  I  have  been  weighing  out  teas,  and  at  the  same  time 
busily  employed  in  the  regions  of  fancy. 

"  When  the  business  of  the  day  was  ended,  my  apartment  was 
the  kitchen,  my  companions  a  methodist  old  woman,  who  was  the 
servant,  and  her  friend,  a  black  cat.  Here  I  might  have  regaled 
myself  after  the  fatigue  of  the  day  with  reading ;  but,  unfortunate- 
ly, the  old  lady's  library,  consisting  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  the 
Holy  War,  and  a  volume  or  two  of  sermons,  was  at  that  time  little 
muted  to  my  taste.  The  pious  discourse  of  the  old  dame  was  still 
?ess  pleasing  ;  thus  (too  fatigued  for  bodily  employment)  sleep,  or 
a  meditation,  were  my  only  alternatives  ;  and  from  these  I  was  fre- 
quently roused  by  the  tabernacle  hymns,  to  the  tune  of  which  the 
old  woman  mended  her  stockings. 

"  On  Sundays  I  constantly  attended  the  meeting  to  which  my 
master  belonged,  where  I  was  compelled  to  hear  doctrines,  at 
which  my  blood  chilled,  and  my  heart  grew  faint. 

"  The  gloom  of  Calvinism,  the  disappointment  of  my  first  hopes, 
the  cdnquest  of  my  pride,  the  dull  and  cheerless  life  I  led,  in  a 
short  space  of  time,  so  cooled  the  former  ardour  of  my  mind,  that, 
if  it  is  too  much  to  say,  I  was  heart-broken  ;  I  was  reduced  to  that 
state  of  mind,  which  sees  no  brightening  prospects  in  futurity,  and 
which,  ceasing  to  hope,  studies  and  struggles  to  endure. 

"  Such  was  the  state  of  mind  in  which,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
I  signed  the  indentures  that  consigned  me  for  seven  years  to  the 
gloom  of  a  cloister,  without  its  consolations  or  tranquillity. 

"  Mr.  Nutting,  previous  to  my  being  bound,  had  often  hinted  to 
me,  that  I  was  slow  in  business,  and  thinking  of  one  thing,  whilst 
I  was  doing  ano.ther  ;  and  having  once  caught  me  in  the  attitude 
of  study,  leaning  upon  a  broom,  with  which  I  was  sweeping  the 
shop,  he  exclaimed — '  Henry,  this  won't  do  ;  you  seem  more  fit  for 
a  philosopher  than  a  tradesman.' 

"With  this  opinion,  which  was  certainly  a  just  one,  Mr.  Nat- 
ting  ought  not  to  have  taken  me  as  his  apprentice.  But  Mr.  Nut- 
ting was  not  a  rich  man ;  and  Mr.  Darwall  had  promised  him  a 
premium  of  sixty  guineas. 

"  From  what  I  have  related,  you  will  readily  conceive  that  I 
made  but. poor  progress  in  the  art  and  mystery  of  the  Grocer's 
Company  ;  and  though  cheerfully  and  willingly  obeying  my  mas- 

2 


28  6EORGKBARNWBLL. 

ter  in  all  his  commands,  I  yet  failed  to  please  him  :  the  natural 
consequence  of  a  want  of  that  energy  in  my  business,  of  which  in- 
clination mast  be  the  parent. 

t£I  was  more  fortunate  with  my  mistress.  She  was  of  a  mild 
temper,  and  humane  disposition,  and  was  a  strict  Calvinist  from 
sincere  conviction.  Superior  to  her  husband  in  intellect,  she  would 
frequently,  when  opportunity  offered,  enter  on  a  conversation  with 
me,  and  discovered  an  amiable  heart.  She  was  mistress  of  all  the 
controversies  upon  theological  topics,  and  felt  great  delight  in  con- 
fut'i?  tiie  arguments  of  the  opponents  of  Calvin. 

"  When  you  recollect  sir,  that  Mrs.  Nutting's  was  the  only  con- 
versation I  enjoyed,  which  embraced  in  any  degree  mental  topics, 
you  will  not  be  surprised,  that  notwithstanding  it  was  religious,  I 
esteemed  it  highly.  In  short,  I  became  delighted  with  these  occa- 
sional recreations  from  the  jargon  of  congou,  bohea,  souchong,  and 
hyscn. 

"  Still  more  delighted  was  I  to  listen  to  her,  while  she  qualified 
the  doctrines  of  Calvinism,  and  laboured  to  reconcile  the  benevo- 
lence of  the  Creator  with  the  doom  of  the  created,  and  the  unborn. 
Her  language  was  warm — her  colourings  exhibited  the  strongest 
lights,  and  deepest  shades.  She  staggered  my  reason,  opened 
aew  scenes  to  my  view,  and  so  far  concjuered  my  objections,  as  to 
make  me  wish  and  pray  that  I  could  believe  her  creed. 

<k  She  perceived  the  crisis,  and  gave  me  permission  to  take  what 
books  I  pleased  from  her  book-case,  which  contained  the  whole 
body  of  Calvinistic  divinity.  Thus  two  or  three  years  passed  away, 
at  the  expiration  of  which  I  had  become  a  zealous  Calvinist. 

"Power  of  the  universe! — how  I  shudder,  when  I  think  upon 
tlio  thousands,  who,  at  this  hour  cherish  in  their  breast  thos'e  hor- 
rible ideas  of  Thee,  which  at  that  time  formed  my  creed ! 

"  I  was  about  seventeen  years  old,  when  Mr.  Nutting,  one  even- 
ing, was  sent  for  in  great  haste  to  visit  a  stranger  who  had  lately 
taken  a  lodging  at  the  next  door,  and  who  was-then  at  the  point  of 
death. 

"  This  stranger  was  a  man,  who,  having  obtained,  early  in  life, 
the  possession  of  a  considerable  estate,  had  given  the  reins  to  his 
passions,  and  had  indulged  in  every  pleasure  that  a  vitiated  taste 
and  corrupt  principles  suggested.  On  the  bed  of  sickness  his  heart 
smote  him. 

"  Chance  led  him  to  the* house  he  was  in,  and  the  landlord  of 
that  house  was  a  strict  dissenter,  of  the  same  persuasion  as  Mr. 
Nutting,  whose  sanctity  and  upright  conduct  had  been  frequently 
proclaimed  in  the  hearing  of  the  dying  man.  He  requested  to  see 
•in ;  derived  a  pleasing  consolation  from  his  discourses  and 
prayers,  and  placed  in  his  breast  an  ample  confession  of  his  crimes. 

"  There  was  only  one  object  living,  for  whom,  in  his  present 
situation,  he  felt  any  concern  ;  and  that  was  a  daughter,  the  fruit 
of  an  illicit  amour  in  the  West  Indies. 

"  This  daughter  he  had  brought  up  with  the  true  affection  of  a 


GEORGE     BARNtfELL.  29 

Father,  having  bestowed  a  very  liberal  expense  upon  her  education 
at  a  very  eminent  school  in  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  where 
she  then  resided  as  a  boarder. 

"  For  this  daughter  Captain  Ellison  felt  an  increasing  concern  as 
his  own  end  drew  nearer.  Himself  grasping  eagerly  at  the  hopes 
and  promises  of  eternal  happiness  offered  to  him  by  Mr.  Nutting, 
on  the  simple  condition  of  believing,  he  became  anxious  that  his 
Elinor  should  share  the  same  blessings,  but  which  he  now  fully 
persuaded  himself  she  would  never  taste,  unless  converted  to  the 
same  faith  with  that  which  he  himself  had  embraced. 

"  Such,  at  length,  was  the  confidence  he  reposed  in  Mr.  Xut- 
ting,  that  he  made  a  will,  by  which  he  bequeathed  an  estate  in 
Hertfordshire,  and  some  considerable  property  in  the  funds,  to  his 
daughter,  upon  the  express  condition  of  her  residing  with  Mr.  Nut- 
ting till  her  twenty- fifth  year,  or  till  her  marriage  with  his  consent. 

"  So  strictly  was  his  will  drawn  up,  that  Mr.  Nutting,  who  was 
his  sole  executor,  obtained  by  it  an  unlimited  control  over  his 
ward  during  her  minority,  and  an  arbitrary  disposal  of  her  in  mar- 
riage, besides  the  interest  of  her  property  while  she  resided  in  his 
house. 

"  The  captain  died.  Miss  Ellison  had  visited  him  two  or  three 
times  at  his  lodgings,  and  was  apprized  of  his  intentions  respect- 
ing her.  A  day  was  appointed  for  her  removal,  and  I  was  ordered 
by  my  master  to  take  a  coach  from  Hyde  Park  Corner  to  Kensing- 
ton, to  bring  Miss  Ellison  and  her  appurtenances  to  the  strand. 

"  Well  do  I  remember  the  scene  at  Kensington.  Affection  truly 
maternal  glowed  in  the  charming  countenance  of  the  governess, 
who  threw  her  arms  round  the  neck  of  her  departing  charge,  and 
buried  tears  of  sensibility  in  her  bosom. — The  young  ladies,  her 
companions,  saluted  her  with  a  warntr  and  sincere  affection,  whilst 
even  the  youngest  of  the  scholars  clung  round  her,  kissing  her 
hands  and  twitching  her  robe,  while  a  buzz  ran  round  the  room  of 
— -'  Remember  me,  Miss  Ellison1 — Pray,  remember  me  !' 

"  My  native  tenderness  was  rising  ; — but  the  gloomy  principles 
I  then  nourished  checked  every  generous  feeling  of  the  heart,  as 
allurements  from  the  love  of  Heaven  ! 

"  Miss  Ellison  at  length  burst  from  their  embraces,  and  hurried 
into  the  coach.  I  took  my  seat  opposite  to  her,  and  imprinted  on 
my  memory  a  face  and  form  never — no,  never — to  be  erased  !" 

As  Mr.  Mental  uttered  the  last  sentence,  he  sighed  deeply,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand.  Recovering  himself 

"  Sir,"  continued  he,  "  she  was  not,  perhaps,  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  in  the  world  . — her  complexion,  when  she  left  Jamaica 
as  an  infant,  was  rather  tinged  with  an  olive  hue  ;  but  her  features 
were  the  notices  of  those  inmates  of  the  female  breast,  which 
charm  the  soul  of  man — sweetness  of  temper,  and  conquering  sub- 
mission— whilst  the  soft  expressions  of  her  eyes  indicated  the  su- 
perior cultivation  of  an  exquisite  mind. 

"  She  first  broke  a  silence  of  some  duration  by  asking  me,  if  1 


30  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

was  the  son  of  Mr.  Nutting,  which  led  to  several  other  questions  ; 
the  result  of  which  was  a  short  description  of  the  family  she  was 
about  to  enter,  for  which  she  expressed  her  thanks,  though  I  saw 
the  pain  which  the  intelligence  occasioned  her. 

"  I  pass  over  her  introduction  to  her  guardian  and  Mrs.  Nutting, 
but  must  not  omit  to  mention  a  conversation  which  took  place  in 
the  evening,  while  I  was  assisting  in  unpacking  some  boxes  in  the 
apartment  allotted  for  her  chamber.  There  were  some  shelves  in 
the  closet — '  I  arn  glad  to  see  these  shelves,'  said  Miss  Ellison, 
'  for  I  have  books  enough  to  fill  them.'  '  Books — books  !'  said 
Mr.  Nutting ;  '  what  books,  child  ?  Let  me  see — its  proper  I 
should  see  what  books  you  have.'  '  Certainly,  sir ;'  was  the  reply  ; 
'  though  I  flatter  myself  you  will  approve  the  selection,  for  they 
have  received  the  approbation  of  my  dear  Mrs.  Herris.' — '  I  dare 
say  Mrs.  Herris  is  a  good  sort  of  moral  woman  ;  but  what  are  her 
religious  sentiments?  There  is  the  important  point.' 

"  By  this  time  I  had  untied  the  cord,  and  began  placing  the 
books  upon  the  floor.  Mr.  Nutting  took  up  a  volume,  and  opened 
it — '  What  a'  prize  is  this,  child?  Eh  ! — outlandish  jargon,  I  take 
it.  What  is  it  ?' 

" '  It  is  a  system  of  geography  in  French,  sir,'  replied  Elinor. 

"  'French  ! — ah,  well;  it  may  be  Dutch,  or  Greek,  or  Algebra, 
or  anything  else,  for  what  I  know  ;  but  I  must  take  this  here  book, 
and  all  them  there  that  I  don't  understand  myself — Pack  of  non- 
sense, I  dare  say — but  they'll  cut  up  for  the  shop.' 

"  '  Oh,  dear  sir,'  said  Elinor,  '  you  would  not,  surely,  destroy 
my  library  !  If  you  do  not  approve  of  my  reading  French,  I  pledge 
my  word  I  will  not.  But,  pray,  do  not  destroy  the  books  :  several 
of  them  are  valuable.' 

"  '  Pledge  your  word — Yes — yes — pretty  pledge  enough.  No, 
no — the  safest  way  is  to  put  it  out  of  your  power.  I  stand  in  a 
most  awful  situation,  child.  I  shall  have  to  answer  for  the  great 
charge  of  your  soul,  that  has  been  so  providentially  committed  to 
my  care  ;  and  nothing  shall  you  read  that  I  do  not  understand.' 

"  Elinor  looked  astonished,  but  Mr.  Nutting  did  not  notice  her. 
Having  laid  his  hand  upon  another  book — 

"  'Mercy  on  us! — here's  a  play  book!'  exclaimed  he.  'Did 
your  Mrs.  Herris  know  of  this  too?' 

"  '  O  dear,  yes,  sir ;  there  are  eight  volumes  of  them:  they  are 
the  immortal  Shakspere's.' 

"  '  God  forgive  you,  child  !  Immortal ! — Yes,  he  is,  doubtless, 
in  immortal  torments.  Here,  Henry,  take  the  immortal  Shaks- 
peres  away.' 

"Poor  Elinor  trembled — Mrs.  Nutting  saw  her  distress. 

"  '  You  should  consider,  my  dear,'  said  she,  '  Elinor  has  been 
brought  up  by  worldly  people ;  and  though  it  is  an  infinite  mercy 
that  brought  her  to  our  roof,  there  must  be  an  inward  change 
wrought  in  her  heart  before  she  can  be  brought  to  see  the  folly  of 
her  worldly  wisdom.' 


GEOROK      BARN  WELL.  31 

"  How  I  blessed  my  mistress.  She  spoke  my  thoughts.  Mr. 
Nutting  made  no  reply,  but  proceeded  with  the  true  zeal  of  an  in- 
quisitor. 

"  '  Milton's  Paradise  Lost!  Ay,  put  that  on  the  shelf  if  you 
will,'  said  he.  '  Hervey's  Meditations  !  that  you  may  take.  But, 
here,  put  all  the  rest  up  in  the  box,  Harry,  and  carry  them,  for  the 
present,  up  to  the  loft ;  take  a  hammer,  and  nail  the  box  down  :  I 
can't  stand  looking  now  ;  I've  got  somewhat  else  to  do.  So  child, 
if  you  want  books  to  read,  ax  Mrs.  Nutting,  and  she'll  put  what's 
proper  into  your  hands  ;  though  I  think  the  needle  suits  best  of 
week  days  ;  and  on  the  Sabbath  you  may  read  your  Bible.' 

"  Surprise,  regret,  and  something  like  anger,  mingled  their  in- 
fluence in  the  mind  of  Miss  Ellison,  and  a  tear  stood  quivering  in 
her  eye.  I  obeyed  so  much  of  my  master's  orders  as  to  carry  the 
box  into  the  loft,  and  intended  to  finish  my  commission  when  I 
went  to  my  chamber,  which  was  one  story  lower  than  the  loft.  But, 
O,  sovereign  Genius — invincible  power — inextinguishable  spark  !— 
then,  again,  thy  smothered  embers  blazed  ! 

"  Taking  my  candle  and  my  hammer,  I  ascended  the  loft ;  1 
placed  my  candle  on  the  floor,  and  was  about  to  drive  the  nail,  when 
a  sudden  impulse  of  curiosity  arrested  my  arm. 

"  Suppose,  thought  I,  I  just  look  over  these  books.  They  are 
profane,  said  Calvin  ;  they  are  the  productions  of  men  destitute  of 
the  enlightening  spirits  of  God,  and  may  tend  to  draw  your  affec- 
tions from  holy  things. 

"  Only  one  peep,  cried  Curiosity  ;  perhaps  I  may  meet  some  old 
acquaintance  that  I  have  almost  forgotten ;  for  it  was  full  three 
years  since  I  had  looked  into  any  book  save  the  theological  labours 
of  Calvinists. 

"  Down  I  dropped  upon  my  knees.  '  If  it  be  a  sin,  God  forgive 
it;  if  it  is  temptation,  Lord  deliver  me.'  I  opened  the  box, 
trembling  ;  I  took  up  a  volume  and  opened  it.  It  was  a  volume  of 
Shakspere,  and  the  passage  that  caught  my  eye  was  the  speech 
of  Portia  on  mercy.  As  I  read,  my  heart  grew  warm  ;  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, it  grew  warmer ;  and  when  I  came  to  the  line — '  It  is  an 
attribute  of  God  himself,'  it  literally  glowed  within  me. 

"  This  speech  had  been  my  favourite  at  school,  and  I  had 
spouted  it  a  hundred  times.  It  brought  to  my  recollection  another, 
for  which  I  eagerly  searched  and  found  in  the  same  author .  '  O 
gentle  sleep,'  &c.  My  spirits  seemed  to  have  gained  a  deliverance 
from  fetters  ;  my  heart  beat  quicker  than  for  a  long  time  past ;  and 
\I  went  on  devouring  the  contents  of  the  box  with  as  much  appetite 
)as  a  hungry  man  would  a  dinner.  I  tasted  every  dish  that  present- 
"ed  itself,  and  found  each  dish  a  dainty.  Nearly  at  the  bottom  of 
the  box  was  a  volume  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  which  I  opened  at 
the  interesting  conversation  of  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Clementina 
upon  the  topic  of  religion.  Conceive  the  interest  I  felt ;  and  judge 
my  regret  when  I  heard  the  clock  strike  three,  and  saw  the  ap- 
proaching departure  of  my  light,  which  glimmered  in  the  socket  of 


32  GEORGE      BARN  WELT,. 

the  candlestick.  I  found  my  way  to  bed  in  the  dark  ;  but  sleep 
was  far  off. 

"  The  spring  of  reason,  that  had  been  stretched  to  impotence  by 
bigotry,  seemed  by  this  accident  to  have  recovered  its  elasticity,  and 
once  more  resumed  its  operations — O  Superstition,  how  greatly  to 
thy  prejudice  ! 

"  I  recollected  the  scene  in  Miss  Ellison's  chamber.  I  placed 
before  my  fancy  the  ignorant  piety  of  my  master,  and  the  profane 
intelligence  of  his  ward.  I  dared  even  to  trace  the  origin  of  thoir 
principles.  I  did  more  ;  I  inquired,  if  it  was  a  consistent  idea,  to 
suppose  a  beneficent  Creator  would  grant  a  special  light  to  a  few 
of  his  creatures,  by  which  they  only  should  be  guided  to  eternal 
bliss ;  while  the  multitude  are  doomed  to  wander  through  a  dark 
passage  to  the  precipice  of  everlasting  wo.  And  when  I  had  in- 
quired, I  blushed !" 


CHAPTER    X. 

•  ••  ••  'fM  bv'Mjio 

As  yet  'tis  midnight  deep.    The  weary  clouds, 
Slow  meeting,  mingle  into  solid  gloom, 
Now,  while  the  drowsy  work)  lies  lost  in  sleep, 
Let  me  associate  with  the  serious  Night. — THOMSON. 

WHEN  George  arrived  at  the  baronet's,  a  council  was  sitting  to 
consider  of  proper  measures  to  be  adopted  relative  to  the  nightly  ap- 
pearances at  the  abbey. 

George  had  been  meditating  all  the  way  from  old  Mental's  upon 
the  same  subject,  and  had  determined  to  watch  this  night  among  the 
ruins.  Overruling  every  objection  that  was  started,  he  abided  by 
his  resolution ;  and  when  the  rest  of  the  family  retired  to  their 
chambers,  he  muffled  himself  up  in  a  box  coat,  armed  himself  with 
a  brace  of  pistols,  and  sallied  forth  towards  the  ruins. 

Darkness  and  silence  reigned  ;  with  difficulty  he  discovered  his 
way,  and  ere  he  reached  the  aisle,  the  echoes  of  the  midnight 
chimes  rolled  amongst  the  ruins.  At  the  same  moment  he  observed 
a  lighted  torch  glide  slowly  towards  the  avenue  that  led  to  the  aisle  ; 
at  the  entrance,  the  person  who  carried  it  turned  round — George 
stepped  behind  a  column,  and  saw  the  same  masked  figure  he  had 
beheld  on  the  preceding  evening. 

After  gazing  earnestly  round  him  for  a  few  seconds,  the  figure 
moved  slowly  towards  the  aisle.  With  a  gentle  tread  George  fol- 
lowed him,  but  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  aisle,  and  reclined  his 
head  against  the  remains  of  a  stone-arched  gateway,  in  the  attitude 
of  listening. 

Presently  the  tones  of  a  harp  struck  his  ear  :  they  were  solemn, 
slow,  and  melancholy.  After  a  few  interesting  movements,  a  voice 
accompanied  the  instrument.  George  could  no  longer  resist  the 
impulse  of  curiosity  ;  but,  creeping  softly,  entered  the  aisle.  The 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  33 

unknown  sat  with  his  back  to  the  entrance,  upon  a  little  stool,  near 
the  tomb,  upon  which  lay  his  mask.  A  lamp  burnt  upon  the  ground, 
and  the  torch  was  extinguished.  The  anxiety  of  his  mind  prevented 
George  from  hearing  distinctly  the  words  of  a  ballad,  but  of  which 
his  memory  retained  the  following  fragment — 

BALLAD. 

Spirit  of  the  lost  Louisa, 

Hear  a  wretch  lament  thy  doom  ; 
Drops  of  warm  blood  from  his  bosom 

Sanctify  thy  early  tomb  1 

Spirit  of  the  lost  Louisa, 

Whither  dost  thou  roam  to-nightt 
Art  thou  present?  dost  thou  hear  mo  ? 

Take  some  form,  and  biess  my  sight 

Slave  of  guilt,  liow  rash  thy  prayer ! 

Lo  !  the  horrid  vision  speeds  : 
Lol  a  female  form  approaches — 

See  !  her  wounded  bosom  bleeds  : 

From  her  cheeks  are  fled  the  roses, 

Round  her  eyes  no  lustre  plays  ; 
Death  has  clasp'd  his  arms  around  her — 

All  her  form  his  touch  betrays. 

Pale,  and  wan,  and  cold  her  face  is, 

And  her  heart  has  ceas'd  to  beat: 
Worms  now  revel  in  her  ringlets. 

Worms  now  prey  arouud  her  feet 

Monster  !  ask  the  loathsome  spectre 

Why  it  quits  the  peaceful  grave  ; 
Is  it  to  revenge  foul  murder  ? 

Is  it  innocence  to  save  ! 

Hark — above  loud  thunders  rattle  t 

From  below  blue  flames  arise! 
Hark  ! — a  voice,  sepulchral,  murmurs 

"I'll  not  rest  till  Henry  dies ! 

"  Wretch,  prepare  thy  soul  for  tortures- 
Tortures  are  prepared  for  thee  ! 

Murderer  of  youthful  beauty. 
Endless  pain  thy  portion  be  !" 

During  the  time  this  ballad  was  singing,  George  stood  motion- 
less, with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  singer.  When  it  \was  concluded, 
he  withdrew  a  few  paces  back,  to  a  spot  where  he  might  see,  un- 
observed, what  should  pass. 

As  soon  as  he  had  finished  this  ballad,  which  appeared  to  agitate 
him  extremely,  the  Unknown  started  from  his  seat,  and,  clasping 
his  hands  together  violently,  exclaimed — "  Oh  !  what  torments — 
what  tortures  could  cruelty  inventequal  to  thy  stings — thy  scorpion 
stings — O,  inward  hell  of  guilt  ! — Oh,  conscience!  Am  I  for  ever- 
lasting to  endure  the>>'  ;•  \iig3  ?  And  will  this  worm  forever  Jive 
within  me? — O  !  that  a  blow  could  strangle  it  ; — that  leasing  into 
burning  liquid  could  annihilate  all  thought!  Why — why — fool  that 
I  am — why  do  I  hesitate  to  try?" 


34  GEORGE     BARNWELt. 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words,  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his  bosom — 
"  This,  in  a  moment,  brings  me  to  my — would  I  could  say,  my  end ! 
But,  no — no — no ! — She  did  not  cease  to  be,  when  this  accursed  arm 
plunged  this  bloody  steel  into  her  beauteous  breast !"  (holding  up 
a  dagger,  bloody  at  the  point) — "  Somewhere  she  still  exists;  for 
still  her  spirit  haunts  her  ruthless  murderer  ! — steals  from  his  pillow 
peace ;  and  makes  the  light  of  day  more  hideous  than  dark  and 
gloomy  night! — meets  me  in  every  walk — crosses  me  in  every  path  ; 
and  here — even  here — where  like  an  outcast  wretch  T  mourn  away 
my  nights — here,  too,  it  follows  me,  and  makes  a  hell.  O,  wretch  ! 
wretch  !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  threw  his  arms  upon  the  tomb,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  The  suspicions  of  George  were  just :  his  voice, 
his  face,  declared  this  confessor  of  murder  to  be  Mental.  Horror 
and  astonishment  struck  him  to  the  soul ;  he  trembled,  and  shudder- 
ed at  the  discovery,  while  a  varying  train  of  ideas  floated  in  his  brain. 

In  a  few  minutes  his  attention  was  again  arrested.  Mental  ex- 
claimed— 

"  Away  this  dream  of  horror  !  Was  she  not  faithless  !"  And 
then  in  a  softer  tone — "  Yes  !  faithless  as  fair .'" 

He  flew  to  his  harp,  and,  moving  his  fingers  briskly,  seemed  en- 
deavouring to  recollect  some  air.  "  Ah — that  was  a  favourite," 
cried  he  ;  "  how  charmingly  did  she  look  when  her  snow-white 
arms  were  extended  to  touch  these  strings — her  flaxen  hair  flowing 
in  ringlets  about  her  lovely  neck — her  expressive  eyes  beaming 
glances  of  love  upon  me — while  her  coral  lips  moved  to  the  melody 
of  an  angel's  voice  ! — And  yet  I  could  destroy  her  ! — could  change 
that  breathing  beauty  into  putrefaction  !  I  was  that  monster  ;  and 
now,  like  an  infant  that  has  broken  his  toy,  I  could  sit  down  and 
weep  a  life  away  !  O  !  if  repentance  were  availing — what  do  1 
not  suffer !  Foolish  mankind  ! — among  thy  race  how  many  a  holy 
penitent  have  I  viewed  ;  whose  lengthened  visage  and  briny  eye 
have  soothed  away  remorse  !  Why,  then,  in  what  a  mould  was  1 
formed,  that  my  wounds  should  resist  all  healing  applications?  Is 
there  no  balsam  that  may  cure  my  soul? — '  Physician,  Omnipotent 
Physician ! ' ' 

Here  he  sunk  upon  his  knees  ;  but  in  a  moment  starting  up 

'  "  Mental, «ar't  turning  monk  !'  exclaimed  he,  'as  if  an  inter- 
cession could  more  avail  with  the  All-powerful  than  his  own  benev- 
olence? Call  back  time  past — undo  past  deeds — bid  the  dead  live 
— and  then  expect  the  peace  thatthou  hast  parted  with  forever  !'  " 

Not  a  syllable  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  this  miserable  man  was 
lost  by  George.  Three  hours  passed  away,  during  which  Mental 
occasionally  broke  out  into  similar  ejaculations,  or  played  upon  the 
harp.  Soon  as  a  distant  bell  tolled  three,  he  lit  his  torch;  and 
removing  a  large  and  heavy  stone,  which  lay  at  some  distance  from  the 
tomb,  a  kind  of  grave  appeared,  in  which  he  deposited  the  harp,  the 
lamp,  and  the  stool,  and  replaced  the  stone  ;  then  masking  himself, 
he  left  the  aisle,  and  George,  at  a  cautious  distance,  followed  him. 


GEORGE      B  A  R  NW  ELL  .  35 


CHAPTER    XI. 

He  has  made  his  fortune  himself,  and  says  that  England  may*  he  richer  than  other 
kingdoms,  by  as  plain  methods  that  he  himself  is  richer  than  other  men  ;  though  at 
the  same  time  I  can  say  this  of  him — that  there  is  not  a  point  in  the  compass  but  blows 
home  a  ship  in  which  he  is  an  owner. — SPECTATOR. 

UNDETERMINED  in  his  mind  whether  to  reveal  or  conceal  the  dis- 
covery, of  the  preceding  night,  George  joined  the  family  at  break- 
fast. To  avoid  their  questions,  however,  he  informed  them  gener- 
ally, that  he  had  been  partly  successful  in  his  research  ;  and  that 
in  another  evening  he  expected  to  be  able  to  unravel  the  whole 
mystery. 

Fortunately  a  letter  arrived  for  the  knight,  which  turned  the  con 
versation  from  a  subject  that  George  would  have  encountered  some 
difficulty  in  disguising,  and  which  he  did  not  wish  to  reveal  till  he 
had  heard  the  sequel  of  old  Mental's  story. 

This  letter  came  from  Mr.  Freeman,  a  merchant  of  the  old  school, 
to  whom  Sir  James  had  written  concerning  his  nephew.  Its  con- 
tents ran  thus — 

"  My  goad  old  friend — 
"  Yours  of  the  17th  ult.  came  duly  to  hand.    Your  generous  proposal  on  behalf  of 

rour  nephew  is  such  as  becomes  Sir  James  Barnwell.  You  know  that,  of  late  years, 
have  left  the  labouring  oar  in  the  hands  of  my  godson  and  partner,  Mr.  Francis  Em- 
ery, who  also  married  my  ward,  Georgiana  Ruby.  He  is  a  man  who  will,  one  day  or 
other,  hold  up  his  head  as  high  as  any  merchant  on  'Change.  He  is  the  confidant  of 
the  Minister,  knows  every  thing  before  other  people's  eyes  arc  open,  and  lets  nothing 
goby.  To  be  sure  I  am  told  his  establishment  is  showy  and  expensive;  but  you  know, 
my  good  friend,  that  in  our  own  time  there  was  no  fishing  without  a  bait  Emery 
knows  what  he  is  about ;  and  though  I  have  not  been  in  town  these  six  years,  he  sends 
me  such  accounts  that  make  me  as  easy  and  as  comfortable  as  if  I  looked  over  the 
leger  every  night.  Besides,  is  not  my  interest  his  interest  ? — tell  me  that,  say  I,  when 
people  would  be  putting  me  on,  doubting  and  mistrusting — Sometimes  I  think  of  with- 
drawing from  the  concern  altogether  ;  but  then  I  think  of  my  dear  Maria,  who  grows 
the  very  image  of  her  poor  mother,  and  is  the  delight  and  comfort  of  my  old  age,  and 
deserves  every  shilling  a  father  can  bestow  ;  so  that  for  her  sake  I  keep  on — But  I  fly 
from  the  subject.  When  yours  came  to  hand,  I  wrote  him  thereon  ;  strongly  recom- 
mended the  youth,  and  enclosed  your  overtures.  Now,  as  an  old  friend,  I  remit  to 
you  his  answer,  which  will  be  sufficient  directions  for  your  proceeding — Wishing  every 
succos  to  the  young  mau,  and  every  happiness  to  yourself,  brings  me  to  a  close.  Sol 
remain  your  well-wisher.  "Fiumcis  FREEMAN." 

Mr.  Emery's  letter  was  as  follows  : 

"Dear  Sir — 

"I  hope  it  is  unnecessary  to  repeat,  that  your  wishes  will  ever  be  considered  by  me 
iu  the  nature  of  commands,  which  it  is  my  duty  to  obey;  besides,  I  perfectly  agree 
with  you  that  Sir  James's  proposal  is  extremely  liberal ;  three  thousand  peumls  down, 
and  seven  when  the  young  man  is  admitted  to  an  eighth  of  the  profits,  considering  he 
is  to  take  an  active  part,  is  an  offer,  in  my  opinion,  not  to  be  refused.  As  the  nephew 
of  Sir  James  Barnwell,  I  think  he  should  domesticate  with  me;  and  as  your  friend, 
sir,  I  shall  certainly  treat  him  with  every  respect : — we  shall  therefore  be  happy  to  see 
him  in  Portmau  Place  as  early  as  agreeable  to  himself.  There  are  favourable  reports 
from  India ;  but,  as  I  intend  writing  upon  business  to-morrow,  shall  make  my  present 
letter  a  domestic  one.  Will  you  never  accede  to  the  petitions  of  Mrs.  Emery  and  my- 
felt',  and  trust  your  Maria  with  us  for  a  winter  ?  You  should,  indeed,  sir,  consider  her 
age — nineteen,  you  know — and  allow  her  some  of  those  pleasures  so  naturally  looked 
for  at  her  time  of  life,  and  which  the  metropolis  aloue  furnishes.  Charlotte  adds  her 
entreaties  to  our  requests,  and  we  all  unite  in  every  good  wish  to  you  both. 

"  I  am,  dear  sir,  gratefully  and  truly  yours,  FSANCIS 

*  Francis  Freeman,  Esq.,  Oak  Hall,  Yorkshire," 
2* 


36  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

The  discourse  that  followed  the  perusal  of  these  letters  was  inter- 
esting; in  which  the  benevolence  of  the  worthy  knight,  and  the 
gratitude  of  the  Barnwells,  were  warmly  delineated.  That  day 
week  was  fixed  for  the  departure  of  George. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

They  lov'd — but  such  their  guiltless  passion  waa 

As  iii  the  dawn  of  time  informed  the  heart 

Of  innocence,  aud  undisseiubliiig  truth. — THOMSOX. 

VARIOUS  were  the  emotions  which  agitated  the  mind  of  young 
Barnwcll,  as  he  strolled  towards  the  house  of  Mr.  Mental.  When 
he  was  introduced  into  his  presence,  he  trembled. 

"  Ere  we  parted,  sir,"  said  Mental,  abruptly,  "  I  think  I  had 
introduced  Miss  Ellison  to  your  acquaintance,  and  bestowed  some 
praise  upon  her  person.  It  is  absolutely  impossible  to  portray  her 
mind,  at  once  simple  and  noble,  condescending  and  dignified.  I 
will  not  attempt  even  to  sketch  its  outlines,  but  shall  confine  my- 
self to  a  single  narrative  of  facts,  in  which  her  actions  will  more 
faithfully  unfold  her  mind,  than  can  the  most  laboured  description. 

"  However  dissimilar  the  manners  of  the  Nuttings  were  to  those 
•which  a  polished  state  had  made  her  own  :  however  abhorrent  their 
gloomy  notions  of  religion  to  a  mind  of  exquisite  sensibility,  and  an 
understanding  of  uncommon  strength  and  cultivation  ;  having  once 
brought  herself  to  believe  it  her  duty  to  obey  the  injunctions  of  her 
father's  will,  she  submitted,  without  sulleni?ess,  to  their  mode  of  life, 
and  paid  a  decent  respect  to  those  duties  which  their  religion  en- 
joined them  to  observe. 

"  But  do  not  imagine  she  played  the  hypocrite.  She  ever  avowed 
her  dissent  from  their  doctrines,  and  scrupled  not  to  confess  her  dis- 
like at  their  recluse  way  of  living.  Honoured — shall  I  not  say 
blessed — with  the  confidence  of  this  charming  woman,  my  situation 
seemed  changed  from  the  most  cheerless  to  the  most  blissful.  We 
read,  we  conversed  together  ;  we  wrote,  and  submitted  our  perform- 
ances to  the  criticisms  of  each  other.  In  short,  we  seemed  mutually 
to  confess,  that  in  that  house,  at  least,  there  was  no  pleasure  but  in 
each  other's  society.  What  the  library  in  the  loft  had  left  unfin- 
ished, Miss  Ellison's  conversation  completed  ;  and  my  soul  once 
again  glowed  with  hope. 

"  I  looked  forward  with  impatience  to  the  termination  of  my  ser- 
vitude, when  I  imagined  I  should  burst  forth  upon  the  world  as  a 
prodigy  of  genius.  The  hours  of  leisure,  which  were  heretofore 
gloomily  spent  in  reading  the  horrors  of  Calvinism,  were  now  em$ 
ployed  in  perusing  various  authors,  or  in  the  composition  of  verses. 
The  subject  of  my  verses,  of  course,  was  my  Elinor. 

"  Having  one  day  stolen  a  volume  of  Shenstone  from  the  box  in 
the  loft,  the  melody  of  his  metre  chimed  in  my  ears,  and  I  strung 


GEORGE     BARNWEI.I,.  37 

together  some  lines,  which  I'll  repeat  to  you,  that  you  may  form 
80:712  judgment  of  ray  romantic  notions.  You  will  remember  I  was 
little  more  than  eighteen. 

Ah  !  whither  is  Happiness  fled  ? 

Ah  t  where  is  Contentment  conceal'd  t 
I'll  seek  them  in  yon  lonely  shed, 

Through  woodbines  and  briers  reveal'd. 
There  Health  and  Contentment  reside, 

There  Happiness  oft  is  a  guest ; 
Mirth  siajs  by  the  wood-fire  side, 

Aud  Peace  rocks  the  cradle  of  rest. 

Affrighted  from  cities  they  fly, 

Where  Pleasure's  enamouring  bowl 
Gives  birth  to  the  tear  and  the  sigh  ; — 

Seduces  and  poisons  the  soul : 
Where  Treachery  calls  itself  Trade, 

And  Honour  dissolves  into  Gain  ; 
Where  the  icicle  heart  is  display'd — 

An  emblem  of  Apathy's  reign. 

Sweet  Peace,  and  Contentment,  and  Health  ; 

To  yon  shall  my  orisons  rise; 
Above  all  the  tinsel  of  wealth 

Y'our  heart-thrilling  blessings  I  prize  ; 
If  constant  my  Elinor  prove, 

And  add,  O  Content !  to  thy  store 
Her  ii.iiocence,  beauty,  and  love, 

I'm  happy,  and  sigh  for  no  more. 

"  Having  copied  this  effusion  for  Miss  Ellison,  unfortunately  1 
left  it  upon  my  master's  desk.  He  found  it:  Not  with  more  vo- 
raciousness does  the  hungry  tiger  seize  upan  its  prey,  than  did  Mr. 
Nutting  upon  my  poor  morceau.  Foanxng  with  anger,  he  flew  to- 
wards me,  and,  tearing  into  ten  thousand  atoms  the  cause  of  his 
indignation,  he  threw  them  into  my  face  :  '  Here's  going  on,'  ex- 
claimed he  ; — '  Here's  attention  to  business.  Why,  it's  an  abomi- 
nable heathenish  hymn,  or  love  elegy,  or  some  such  stuff,  trumped 
up  to  seduce  the  affections  of  my  ward.  But  I'll  put  a  stop  to  it. 

If  ever  I  see  you  speak  to  her,  or  look  at  her,  I'll '     Here, 

choked  with  auger,  he  stamped  his  foot,  and  threw  down  three  pots 
of  honey  ;  an  accident  that  by  no  means  helped  to  restore  him  to 
reason. 

The  consequence  of  this  discovery  was  an  abridgment  of  the  op- 
portunities of  conversing  with  my  Elinor,  and  a  more  rigid  line  of 
conduct  towards  Miss  Ellison  herself. 

"  Shortly  after  this  event,  another  occurred  of  most  decisive 
consequences  towards  us  both.  A  relation  of  Mrs.  Nutting  was 
taken  ill,  and  requested  her  attendance.  She  went  to  reside  with 
her  a  few  weeks  at  Hampstead.  On  the  Saturdays  Mr.  Nutting 
uv.nt.  to  sleep  there,  and  returned  usually  on  the  Monday  morning. 
Miss  Ellison  was  left  in  the  strand,  as  a  guardian  to  the  house. 
On  one  of  these  Saturdays  Elinor  and  myself  had  planned  to  briS-i 
the  old  woman,  I  have  mentioned  as  the  servant,  to  secrecy,  and  to 
embrace  the  opportunity  of  goin?  to  a  play.  The  old  dame  would 
never  have  consented  to  our  visiting  the  'Devil's  House,'  as  &!  ? 


38  OEORGEBARNWELL. 

termed  the  theatre ;  and  therefore  it  became  necessary  to  deceive 
her  with  the  tale  of  a  visit  we  were  going  to  pay  Mrs.  Herris,  the 
former  governess  of  Miss  Ellison.  To  this  she  yielded,  after  a  few 
weighty  arguments. 

"  I  can  now  see  a  great  inconsistency  in  Miss  Ellison's  conduct, 
as  well  as  a  great  impropriety  in  my  own,  in  thus  abusing  the  con- 
fidence placed  in  us  both.  But,  sir,  at  the  moment  I  am  speaking 
of,  temptation  was  irresistible  ;  you  cannot  conceive  its  strength. 

"  Elinor  was  as  passionately  fond  of  theatrical  performances  as 
myself.  I  had  not  seen  one  in  the  space  of  four  years,  nor  had 
she  since  her  entrance  into  our  family  ;  nor  was  there  the  remotest 
probability  that  any  other  opportunity  would  occur  during  our  stay 
with  the  Nuttings. 

"  The  play  to  be  performed  that  evening  was  Shahspere's 
Romeo  and  Juliet ;  and  the  Romeo  was  Garrick. 

"There  were  several  scruples  to  conquer;  but,  in  the  end, 
temptation  triumphed. 

"Taking  some  precautions  to  disguise  our  persons,  we  went 
and  mingled  with  the  crowd  that  had  assembled  at  the  pit  door  of 
Drury  Lane  theatre.  Unaccustomed  to  the  place,  and  surrounded 
completely  by  a  concourse  of  people,  Elinor  began  to  tremble  with 
terror. 

"  The  attraction  of  Garrick  had  drawn  an  unusual  throng  :  the 
heat  and  pressure  becUme  almost  insupportable  to  Miss  Ellison, 
and  added  to  her  fright,  at  length  overpowered  her.  She  told  me 
that  she  felt  herself  fainting.  I  attempted  to  make  a  retreat  through 
the  crowd.  It  was  impossible.  She  fainted  in  my  arms.  At  the 
same  instant  the  doors  opened,  and,  being  deprived  of  the  use  of 
my  arms,  we  both  sunk  together,  and  I  became  senseless. 

"  When  my  senses  returned,  I  found  myself  in  a  strange  bed, 
•with  several  persons  standing  round  me.  Astonishment  seized  me 
for  a  moment ;  but  when  the  memory  of  the  scene  that  had  passed 
occurred,  it  was  like  an  arrow  shot  through  my  brain — '  The  lady  ! 
— the  lady ! — Elinor ! — Miss  Ellison  !— - is  she  alive  ! — where  "is 
she  !'  exclaimed  I,  in  the  agony  of  the  most  torturing  suspense.  In 
lifting  my  hands  to  my  head,  I  found  I  had  been  bled. 

"  The  people  around  me  stared  in  my  face,  and  at  one  another, 
but  made  no  reply  to  my  questions.  '  My  God  !  will  you  not  tell 
me?'  They  shook  their  heads  in  sign  of  pity.  '  She  is  dead  ! — 
she  is  murdered  then  ! '  exclaimed  I.  '  Poor  youth  ! '  cried  a  man 
who  stood  nearest  to  me ;  '  poor  youth  ! — his  brain  is  quite  dis- 
ordered. I  believe  we  must  take  a  little  more  blood.'  '  You'd 
better  look  who's  to  pay  you,'  cried  a  fat  man  in  a  red  worsted 
cap ;  '  I  think  instead  of  bleeding,  we'd  better  see  and  get  a  chair, 
and  take  him  to  the  work-house.  He  can't  stay  here  all  night.  I 
don't  know  what  business  some  folks  have  to  bring  all  casulties  to 
my  house.'  '  Why,  as  to  that,  Mr.  Brown,'  cried  a  decent-look- 
ing man,  '  where  could  we  take  him  so  proper :  who  would  have 
thought,  to  look  at  him,  but  that  he  was  dead  ;  and  in  that  case, 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  39 

the  coroner  would  have  sat  upon  the  body  at  your  house,  and  you'd 
have  had  no  objection.' 

"  '  Where  am  I,  then?'  exclaimed  T — '  Where  are  you  !'  cried 
the  fat  man  : — '  why,  you're  at  the  Dolphin,  in  Drury  lane:  and  as 
you  seem  in  your  senses  now,  young  man,  pray,  where  do  you 
live — who  are  your  friends  ? ' 

"  My  God  !  what  a  thunderbolt  was  this  question.  Instead  of 
answering  this  man,  I  repeated  my  questions  concerning  Elinor, 
but  could  procure  no  intelligence.  My  anxiety  made  me  strong. 
I  determined  to  arise ;  nor  could  the  whole  College  of  Physicians 
have  prevailed  upon  me  to  relinquish  my  purpose.  I  dressed  my- 
self with  assistance.  I  was  severely  bruised  in  several  places,  but 
had  received  no  material  injury. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  I  left  the  Dolphin.  My  inquiries  after 
Elinor  were  for  a  long  time  fruitless.  All  the  intelligence  that  I 
could  gather  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  theatre  was,  that  a  young 
lady  had  been  trampled  to  death,  and  conveyed  away  in  a  hackney 
coach,  but  whither  nobody  knew. 

"  I  went  home,  with  a  faint  hope  that  she  might  have  been  con- 
veyed thither.  I  rung  the  bell ;  the  old  woman  appeared,  and  her 
first  inquiry  was — '  What  have  you  done  with  Miss?' 

"  Without  answering  her  question,  I  ran  away.  I  returned  back 
to  the  door — again  I  left  it,  and,  from  the  anxiety  of  mind,  played 
the  antics  of  a  madman. 

"  The  whole  of  the  night  I  wandered  up  and  down  the  streets, 
slopping  every  hackney  coach,  inquiring  of  every  passenger  after 
the  object  of  my  search — imagination  tormented  me  with  a  thou- 
sand horrible  ideas — I  saw  her  dead  ! — worse  than  dead  ! — I  saw 
her  person  violated  ! — I  heard  her  shrieks  ! — I  saw  her  agonies  ! — 
and  my  reason  absolutely  reeled.  Morning  appeared  !  I  had 
walked  the  whole  night ;  and  had  taken  no  refreshment ;  and  I 
found  myself  sinking  with  fatigue. 

"  As  I  passed  the  Chapter  Coffee-House  in  St.  Paul's  church- 
yard, the  servants  were  taking  down  the  shutters.  I  went  in  ; 
and,  leaning  my  head  upon  a  table,  indulged  a  silent  grief.  I  re- 
mained in  this  posture  some  time,  till  several  persons  came  into  the 
room.  After  them  was  a  short,  neat  looking  man,  who  seated  him- 
self near  me — 'How  is  your  patient  this  morning,  Mr.  Brookes?' 
said  a  gentleman  to  him.  'She  still  remains  insensible,'  replied 
he,  '  but  her  fever  is  lower.'  '  Poor  thing  !'  said  the  other,  '  and 
was  there  nothing  about  her  that  could  give  you  an  idea  who 
she  is?  There  are  some  aching  hearts  on  her  account  by  this 
time.' 

"  '  Merciful  Providence  ! — have  I  then  found  her?'  exclaimed  I, 
in  a  tone  that  alarmed  the  whole  company. 

"  '  If  you  have  any  heart ! — if  you  would  relieve  the  most 
wretched  being  on  earth!' — continued  I,  'pray  take  me  to  my 
Elinor.' 

"  The  people  gathered  round  me  with  astonishment.     An  eclair- 


40  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

cissement  took  place.  Tt  was  my  Elinor.  The  humanity  of  Mr. 
Brookes,  who  was  a  respectable  bookseller,  had  saved  her  life ;  and 
she  was  then  at  his  house  in  Paternoster  Row. 

"  I  saw  her,  but  she  knew  me  not ;  though  in  the  sweetly 
mourning  sentences  she  uttered  my  name  was  often  mentioned.  A 
physician  attended  her,  who  pronounced  her  out  of  danger. 

"  Relieved  from  the  heaviest  part  of  my  anxiety,  I  had  now  lei- 
sure to  think  of  my  own  situation  ;  but  could  not  resolve  how  to 
act.  Mr.  Nutting  I  dared  not  to  see  ;  Mr.  Darwall  I  shuddered  to 
meet. 

"  I  made  Mr.  Brookes  my  confidant,  who  humanely  offered  me 
an  asylum  in  his  own  house,  till  he  could  reconcile  me  to  Mr.  Nut- 
ting, or,  at  least,  to  Mr.  Darwall,  whom  he  determined  to  see  the 
following  morning. 

"  His  endeavours  were  unavailing  with  both.  The  former  firmly 
protested  against  ever  receiving  me  again  into  his  house  ;  and  so 
represented  me  to  the  latter,  that  his  heart  was  completely  steeled 
against  me.  Thus  did  one  trivial  event  deprive  me  of  the  only 
friend  I  had  on  earth.  Thus  were  nearly  five  years  of  my  life 
fooled  away,  without  affording  the  least  advantage  to  myself,  or 
satisfaction  to  my  benefactor. 

*'  I  had  now,  indeed,  my  liberty  ;  but  independence  came  too 
late,  and  in  too  melancholy  a  way. 

"  I  perceive,  Mr.  Barnwell,  I  must  be  less  prolix.  One  incident 
leads  on  insensibly  to  another.  I  must  content  myself,  therefore, 
with  a  more  general  account. 

"  Passing  over,  then,  many  tender  and  affecting  interviews  I  had 
with  Miss  Ellison,  on  her  recovery,  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Brookes, 
ere  she  was  well  enough  to  be  removed  to  her  guardian's,  I  will 
confine  myself  to  the  one  in  which  a  mutual  confession  of  love  (for 
we  really  loved)  took  place. 

"  She  had  that  morning  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Nutting, 
urging  her  return. 

"  '  And  when  do  you  mean  to  go,  Miss  Ellison  ?'  said  I. 
.  "  '  Never  !'  replied  she  with  firmness.     '  I  will  not  sacrifice  in- 
dependence and  happiness  to  wealth  !' 

"  '  Miss  Ellison,  are  you  serious  ?' 

"  '  I  am  resolved.  I  went  there  in  obedience  to  my  father's 
will.  I  found  the  situation  barely  tolerable. 

"  '  After  this  unfortunate  accident  it  will  no  longer  be  so.  I 
shall,  therefore,  relinquish  all  claim  to  my  fortune,  and  retain  the 
rights  of  a  human  being  !' 

"  '  My  God,  Elinor  ! — Madam,  what  are  you  pursuing — what 
means  of  living,  what  prospects  even  of  a  subsistence  have  you  in 
view  ? ' — 

"  '  Let  me  retort  your  questions,  sir. — You  have,  on  my  account, 
lost  your  late  prospects.  What  is  your  determination  ?' 

"  '  I — I — Madam — I — I  am  a  man — ' 

"  '  And  is  the  privilege  of  procuring  a  subsistence  confined  to 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  41 

men  exclusively?  Have  women,  then,  no  hands  to  labour,  no 
judgment  :o  plan,  or  resolution  to  pursue  a  project?  I  am  ready 
to  concede  to  your  sex  superior  prowess  in  bodily  exercises  ;  but  I 
am  yet  to  be  convinced,  that  nature  made  the  female  that  passive 
animal,  which  custom  exhibits  in  our  cities.  My  resolution  is 
fixed — my  plan  is  arranged — Mr.  Brookes  approves  it — at  least  ac- 
quiesces in  it.' 

"  '  May  I  ask  the  nature  of  it?' 

"  '  I  have  no  desire  to  keep  it  a  secret,  particularly  from  you. 
I  am  going  to  commence  author  by  profession.  For  the  present  I 
shall  remain  in  his  house  as  a  boarder.  'Tis  no  hastily  formed 
project,  but  the  result  of  serious  consideration.' 

"  I  was  struck  dumb  with  surprise  and  regret. 

"  '  What  ails  you,  Mental  ?'  said  she  ;  '  you  are  unwell  ?' 

"  '  Why  did  you  not  acquaint  me  with  this  plan  yesterday  1' 
said  I.  '  It  perhaps  would  have  been  possible  to  havu  procured 
some  similar  employ  myself.' 

"  '  Certainly,  nothing  is  more  easy.  Mr.  Biookes  himself 
means  to  offer  you  a  proposal  this  very  day.' 

"  '  Why  did  he  not  propose  it  yesterday?' 

"  '  What  happened  yesterday,  then,  sir?  Is  it  too  late?  Tell 
me,  what  of  yesterday?' 

"  '  0,  Madam  ! — O,  Elinor  ! — yesterday  was  a  fatal  day.  De- 
pressed with  gloomy  ideas,  I  wandered  through  the  busy  streets  of 
this  metropolis,  ruminating  on  the  past,  and  on  the  future.  I 
looked  back,  without  much  regret,  at  what  I  have  left,  but  with 
sorrow  at  what  I  have  done.  I  had  sacrificed  the  most  important 
part  of  life  to  an  implicit  submission  to  another's  judgment.  1  had 
lost  that  '  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  which  leads  to  fortune,'  and 
nothing  but  miseries  and  shallows  presented  themselves  in  the 
'  rest  of  my  voyage.'  In  all  the  boundless  ocean  of  futurity  I  could 
behold  no  single  spot  on  which  to  cast  Hope's  anchor. 

"  '  As  I  walked  on,  musing  in  this  strain,  the  carriage  of  a  cele- 
brated pleader  passed  me,  in  which  he  lolled  at  ease  ;  and  opposite 
to  him  sat  his  son,  a  youth  seemingly  about  my  own  age.  I  sigh- 
ed ;  perhaps  (1  ought  to  own  the  truth)  I  envied  him.  Yes,  Eli- 
nor, envied  him  ;  for  that  which  is  emulation  where  competition  is 
open,  is  envy  where  it  is  shut. 

"  '  Would  I  were  that  happy  youth,  sighed  I.  What  admirable 
exercise  for  the  mind  does  such  a  profession  open  ! — what  opportu- 
nities for  displaying  its  powers  !  And  it  is  mere  prejudice  to  ima- 
gine a  man  cannot  possess  a  liberal  mind  who  is  a  lawyer. 

"  '  The  carriage  stopped — instinctively  I  followed  them  into  the 
Guild  Hall.  The  courts  were  sitting.  A  cause  was  arguing — I 
listened — I  became  interested  in  the  arguments — I  wondered  at  the 
omission  of  many,  which  would  have  made  for  or  against  the  ques- 
tion. The  judge  rose  to  give  his  opinion.  I  had  anticipated  much 
that  he  said.  My  proud  heart  fluttered  ;  I  was  a  pleader  in  ima- 
gination ;  I  applauded  myself — was  happy  in  my  fancies.  The 


42  GEORGE     BARNWELl. 

verdict  was  given  ;    the  crowd  dispersed ;    and  then — I  felt  ichat  I 
realty  was  ! 

"  '  As  the  concourse  of  people  separated  at  the  door,  one  cried, 
shaking  another's  hand — '  I  must  go — so  and  so — such  business 
calls  me.'  Another  replied,  '  I  should  have  been  at  such  a  place.' 
Every  one  appeared  to  be  running  after  some  object  that  occupied 
his  mind,  and  brought  emolument  to  himself.  '  And  where  shall  I 
goT'  sighed  I. 

"  '  In  King  street  I  met  a  mob,  dragging  a  poor  ragged  wretch  to 
justice,  who  had  been  detected  in  picking  a  pocket.  I  mingled 
with  the  crowd  to  hear  the  examination.  '  What  means  have  you 
of  getting  a  livelihood1?'  said  the  magistrate.  The  culprit  was 
silent.  '  Why,  then,  to  save  you  from  the  gallows,  I  shall  send 
you  for  a  soldier.' 

"  '  What  means  hare  you  of  getting  a  livelihood!  rung  in  my 
ears.  I  traversed  street  after  street.  Often  would  I  check  myself 
with  the  question — What  means  have  I  of  getting  a  livelihood  * 
Where  am  I  going  1  Not  to  rny  father,  mother,  sister,  or  brother 
— these  are  unmeaning  sounds  to  me!  Not  to  my  home — even  that 
cheerin?  sound,  which  delights  the  poorest,  was  but  a  mockery  to 
me.  Then  darted  across  my  mind — yes,  let  me  own  it — your 
image,  Elinor.  I  saw,  at  that  moment,  the  utter  impossibility  of 
your  ever  being  mine — nay,  bear  with  me  a  moment ! — I  saw  you 
given  to  some  rich  idiot,  whose  bigotry  might  please  old  Nutting  ; 
and  I  almost  cursed  existence  ! 

"  '  Just  then  the  martial  sound  of  fife  and  drum  struck  my  ears. 
A  recruiting  party  appeared — I  paused  ! — What  means  have  you 
of  getting  a  livelihood  ?  still  rung  in  my  ears.  Frensy  seized  me 
— I  ran  to  the  lieutenant,  and  offered  him  my  hand — '  I'll  serve  the 
king!'  cried  I.  The  men  pulled  off  their  hats,  and  gave  three 
cheers.  The  lieutenant  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and,  after  looking 
in  my  face,  exclaimed,  with  an  oath — '  Harry  Mental !'  He  had 
been  my  chum  at  Eton.' 

"  '  Merciful  Heaven  !  and  I  have  been  the  cause  of  this,'  cried 
Elinor.  '  O,  then,  it  is  time,  my  Henry — my  love — it  is  time  to 
throw  off  every  little  affectation  of  our  sex,  and  let  you  see  my 
heart — a  heart,  my  Henry,  that,  whether  you  accept  or  reject  it,  is 
only  yours.  I  love  you,  Henry  ;  and,  go  where  you  will,  no 
earthly  power,  that  leaves  me  life,  shall  separate  me  from  you.' 

"Excuse  these  few  drops  of  weakness,"  said  Mental,  as  he 
wiped  his  eyes,  "  they  are  sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  martyr ! — 
Yes,  sir,  she  made  this  frank  avowal  of  her  love,  whilst  her  beau- 
teous face  concealed  its  virgin  blushes  in  my  bosom.  O  !  memory 
— memory  !  too  faithful  memory  !" 

And  again  the  tears  would  flow. 

"  A  declaration  so  frank,  so  noble,  so  worthy  her  uncommon 
character,  was  met,  on  my  part,  by  one  at  least  as  sincere,  as  ar- 
dent as  disinterested,  as  her  own. 

"  The  lieutenant  being  my  friend,  by  his  interest  I  obtained  a 


GEORGE      BAR  SWELL.  43 

discharge  from  my  rash  engagement,  and  Elinor  and  myself  were 
shortly  after  married. 

"  Mr.  Brookes  continued  the  friendly  rock  on  which  we  built  our 
little  bovver  of  bliss.  His  counsel  directed,  his  benevolence  aided, 
his  generosity  munificently  remunerated  our  labours.  He  was  en- 
gaged in  a  very  extensive  concern,  and  found  us  abundant  employ. 
Elinor  wrote  a  novel,  which  succeeded  well.  We  published, 
jointly,  a  volume  of  poetry  ;  and  we  mutually  laboured  at  transla- 
tions. Competence  was  the  sweet  reward  of  our  labours,  supply- 
ing us  with  all  the  necessaries,  and  many  of  the  decent  luxuries 
of  life.  We  resided  in  a  small  but  neat  cottage  at  Walworth,  only 
visiting  the  metropolis  occasionally. 

"  The  life  I  now  Jed  was  the  very  reality  of  that  picture  which 
imagination  had  taught  my  youthful  heart  to  doat  upon  ;  and  yet, 
possessing  this  reality,  I  was  not  content.  When  literary  compo- 
sitions became  the  means  of  my  subsistence,  I  found  it  irksome  ;  I 
fancied  it  a  mean  employ  of  talent  to  let  it  out  for  hire.  I  grew 
dissatisfied  ;  I  formed  a  variety  of  new  schemes,  which  alternately 
delighted  and  disgusted  me. 

"  A  period,  however,  approached,  which  compelled  me  to  submit 
to  the  irksomeness,  and  even  meanness,  (as  I  deemed  it.)  of  my 
employment.  My  Elinor  bore  me  a  daughter.  I  wept  tears  of 
joy  ;  my  heart  beat  with  rapture  ;  for  at  that  moment,  sir,  I  did 
not  dream  how  many  curses,  in  disguise,  I  hailed  as  blessings — I 
sometimes  laugh  to  think  how  my  silly  heart  was  cheated." 

[Here  Mental  laughed,  but  in  a  manner  that  conveyed  the  misery 
and  horror  of  his  recollections.] 

He  continued — 

"  A  year  or  two  marched  onwards  in  the  track  of  time,  unmark- 
ed by  any  record  of  the  memory  ;  but  about  the  time  my  little  girl 
was  three  years  old,  and  began  to  prattle,  there  happened  an  event 
which  is  so  firmly  printed  on  my  mind's  register,  thatnot  even  the 
flaming  fingers  of  the  fiends  of  hell  can  burn  the  page,  nor  all  the 
pitying  dews  that  drop  from  angels'  eyes  blot  out  the  bloody  cha- 
racter ! 

"  But  spare  me  now  a  task  I  feel  beyond  my  powers.  Retire — 
retire,  my  young  friend — see  me  to-morrow  ;  and  come  prepared 
to  hear  a  tale  of  horror !" 

The  anguish  of  his  heart  was  visible  iu  the  struggling  features 
of  his  face,  and  he  breathed  painfully  convulsive  sighs.  George 
pressed  his  hand,  and  retired  in  silence. 


44  GBOROE     BARNWELL. 

CHAPTER    XTII. 

Forbear  to  judge,  for  we  are  sinners  all ! — SHAKSPEKE. 

"  THIS  tale  of  horrors,  to  which  he  alluded,"  said  George,  mus- 
ing on  his  way  home,  "  must  be  the  murder  of  the  Louisa  of  his 
ballad,  and  the  Elinor  of  his  tale.  Why  does  he  change  the  name 
then?" 

A  chain  of  conjectures  on  poor  Mental's  tale  occupied  his  mind 
till  he  reached  home,  when  a  fresh  occurrence  demanded  his  atten- 
tion. 

Upon  entering  the  drawing-room,  he  started  back  with  surprise, 
at  the  sight  of  the  harp,  the  lamp,  and  the  stool,  which  he  had  the 
preceding  night  seen  deposited  by  Mental  under  the  stone  in  the 
haunted  aisle.  There  was  nobody  in  the  room ;  he  had  found  the 
hall  door  open,  and  had  entered  without  seeing  any  of  the  servants. 
Descending  the  stair-case,  he  met  old  Joseph. 

"  O,  sir!"  said  Joseph,  "  such  discoveries  !" 

"  Such  discoveries  !"  cried  George — "  Where?" 

"  At  the  haunted  aisle,  sir.  Have  you  not  seen  the  music  and 
the  lamp?" 

"  Yes  :  but  how  were  they  discovered  ?" 

"  I  discovered  them," — with  an  air  of  impatience.  "  This  morn- 
ing, sir,  I  was  going  to  the  doctor's  for  some  conserve  of  roses,  for 
Mrs.  Meredith,  the  house-keeper,  who  has  got  a  terrible  blight  in 
her  eyes,  as  I  take  it,  by  sitting  in  the  garden  when  the  night  air" — 

"  Well — well,  Joseph — you  were  going  to  the  doctor's — never 
mind  what  about." 

"  True,  sir,  as  you  say,  that's  no  matter  ;  that's  neither  here  nor 
there  as  to  the  discovery.  Well,  sir,  the  nearest  way  to  Doctor 
Saffron  lies  through  the  park,  and  the  ruins  ;  and  though  I  have 
many  times  gone  round  by  the  road-way  for  fear,  I  was  determined 
this  morning  to  go  boldly  on  through  the  haunted  aisle  :  and  so  I 
did  ;  for  since  our  search  there,  I  began  to  think  less  of  the  matter 
than  I  used  to  do.  I  did  tremble  a  little,  to  be  sure,  when  I  got 
there  ;  but  some  how  or  other,  as  if  Providence  had  ordered  it  so, 
I  grew  bold  when  I  had  been  there  a  while  ;  and,  finding  myself  a 
little  fatigued  with  my  walk,  I  sets  me  down  boldly  upon  the  very 
tomb  where  they  say  the  naked  lady  sets  every  night.  Now  only 
mind,  sir,  what  great  discoveries  sometimes  happen  from  trifling 
things.  I  had  a  hat  on  that  was  bran  new  last  Sunday ;  the  day 
was  hot,  so  I  pulls  off  my  hat,  and  lies  it  down  upon  the  tomb. 
Well,  when  I  had  rested  me,  I  takes  my  hat  up,  and,  behold,  all 
the  top  of  the  crown  was  soaked  in  lamp  oil.  I  was  struck  very 
strange,  to  think  how  this  could  happen  :  when,  lo,  and  behold  ye, 
I  find  a  quantity  of  oil,  as  if  it  had  been  spilt  upon  the  tomb-stone ; 
and  I  find  it  had  dripped,  dripped,  dripped,  all  the  way  along  the 
moniment  to  a  large  stone  covered  over  with  moss,  and  beyond  that 
stone  aot  a  drop  of  oil  was  there  to  be  seen  or  smelt.  Then  all  of 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  45 

a  sudden  it  came  into  my  head  about  the  light  that  has  been  so  often 
seen  of  a  night.     And " 

"Enough — enough — "  cried  George,  with  his  usual  impetuosity 
of  temper — "  I  know  the  rest,  good  Joseph,  and  will  spare  TUU  the 
trouble  of  reciting  it — You  moved  the  stone — and  there  ;l»e  harp 
and  the  lamp  was  found — But  here  comes  Sir  James ." 

"The  strangest  discoveries  !"  said  the  baronet 

''•  Joseph  has  been  relating  it,  sir,"  replied  G' orge. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  knight — "  and  what  conjectures  do  you 
draw  from  it?" 

Mr.  Sandall,  Mrs.  and  Miss  Barnwell  joined  them. 

"  The  music  that  has  been  heard,  and  the  lights  that  have  been 
seen,  are  rationally  accounted  for,  at  least,  by  this  discovery,"  said 
George  ;  "  but  the  performer  of  these  nocturnal  orgies  we  have  yet 
to  discover.  I  should  think,  Mr.  Sandall,  a  ghost  would  not  be  at 
the  trouble  of  hiding  those  things." 

Mr.  Sandall  was  silent. 

"  It  seems  a  strange  propensity,"  said  Sir  James,  "  in  any  man 
to  amuse  himself  in  such  midnight  recreations.  I  know  nobody  I 
could  suspect  of  such  exploits  ;  unless,  indeed,  the  strange  old  fel- 
low, who  is  the  proprietor  of  the  ruins." 

"  And  who  else  would  you  suspect,  Sir  James,"  said  Sandall  : 
"  Is  not  the  man  known  to  be  every  thing  that's  bad?  Who  knows 
for  what  infernal  purposes  he  might  hold  his  nightly  sittings  there? 
These  are  strange  times,  Sir  James.  I  was  reading  to  you  the 
History  of  the  Illuminati,  a  book  which  proves  the  existence  of  con- 
spirators against  all  the  world  ;  and  1  believe  that  this  country  is 
not  free  from  them.  The  place  is  retired ;  Mental's  house  is  large; 
and  no  one  is  seen  to  enter  his  door  by  day-light.  Now,  who  knows 
but  he  may  entertain  in  that  house,  or  have  concealed  about  the 
ruins,  a  gang  of  these  horrible  villains,  who  would  go  any  lengths 
to  overturn  all  religion  and  order.  I  should  not  presume  to  dictate 
to  you,  Sir  James;  but  you  are  a  magistrate,  Sir  James;  and  a 
hint  to  a  man  of  your  penetration  is  sufficient — " 

George  would  certainly  have  incurred  the  displeasure  of  the 
'knight  by  a  hearty  laugh  at  his  chaplain,  had  he  not  been  prevented 
by  a  noise  in  the  hall  below,  and  alarmed  at  the  voice  of  Mental 
himself. 

The  rumour  of  the  discovery  had  spread  widely  in  a  short  time, 
and  had  gathered  numberless  additions  in  its  progress :  till  at 
length  the  story  of  a  murder,  committed  by  Mental,  had  actually 
gathered  an  assembly  of  peasantry  about  iiis  gate,  who  were  point- 
ing to  his  house,  and  significantly  lifting  up  their  hands  and  eyes 
to  heaven.  The  old  man  had  noticed  them;  and,  by  piece-meal, 
had  obtained  information  of  the  discovery. 

Rudely  rushing  into  the  drawing-room,  to  the  extreme  terror  of 
Mr.  Sandall  and  the  ladies ;  his  head  covered,  his  hands  clenched, 
his  eyes  darting  anger  and  revenge — "  By  what  authoiity,  what 
law— by  the  show  of  what  prerogative,  is  my  property  removed 


46  G-*OR«K     BARNWELL- 

from  my  own  estate,  and  placed  here?"  exclaimed  he — "Yet  do 
not  answer  me  !  I  know  the  tale  that  hangs  upon  your  lips.  But 
I  demand  to  know  the  author  of  those  vile  calumnies,  which  the 
deluded  peasantry  are  blowing  round  my  dwelling.  I  think  I  trace 
the  infamous  suggestion  in  the  coward  countenance  of  yonder  priest , ' ' 
pointing  to  Mr.  Sandall. 

"Me — me!"  exclaimed  Sandall,  skulking  behind  Sir  James's 
chair.  "  Mr.  Mental,  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  have  had  no  hand  what- 
ever in  the  business." 

"What!  can  you  lie  V  said  Mental — "  O,  how  ill  does  it  be- 
come the  man  whose  lips  spout  forth  the  purest  and  sublimest  doc- 
trines ever  taught  mankind,  to  retail  calumnies  !  How  ill  does  it 
become  a  man  of  any  faith  to  wound  the  reputation  of  his  absent 
fellow ;  then  shrink  at  his  approach,  conscious  of  the  injury  be- 
stowed, and  yet  most  dastardly  disown  the  blow  !" 

Mr.  Sandall  was  of  a  pale  complexion  ;  but  at  this  moment  his 
lips  were  paler  than  his  cheeks,  and  he  could  not  stand  upright. 

"Does  your  reverence  know  this  man?"  asked  Mental.  [It 
was  farmer  Cornall.]  Sandall  trembled.  "  The  tale  you  have  in- 
stilled in  this  man's  ear  was  wanton  or  malicious.  Be  it  as  it  may, 
sir,  it  shall  be  refuted.  You  have  spread  stories  of  enchantment, 
necromancy — nay,  of  murder !  to  my  prejudice :  that  I  conceal 
bandftti  of  Illuminati  in  my  house.  Now,  Sir  James," — to  the 
knight — "  You  are  a  magistrate — I  surrender  myself  on  the  charge 
of  this  zealous  protector  of  the  Christian  faith,  and  am  your  prison- 
er till  acquitted.  Go  to  my  servant,  take  the  keys  of  every  room 
— nay,  I  insist  on  it — search  every  drawer,  examine  every  paper. 
I  fear  no  discoveries." 

After  many  objections,  Sir  James  consented  to  visit  the  residence 
of  Mr.  Mental,  as  the  only  means  of  adverting  the  threats  of  the  la- 
bourers, assembled  from  the  neighbouring  villages  to  pull  down 
the  house. 

Accompanied  by  Mr.  Sandall  and  George,  he  walked  toward  the 
house ;  and,  at  the  particular  request  of  Sir  James,  Mental  went 
with  them,  smiling  as  he  passed  the  insulting  throng  assembled 
round  them,  which  all  the  eloquence  and  authority  of  the  knight 
could  scarcely  keep  in  order. 

As  they  were  entering  the  house,  Mental  took  an  opportunity  of 
whispering  to  George,  unnoticed — "  You  have  not  tattled,  boy?" 

"  I  am  no  babbler,"  said  George. 

"  Then  whatever  you  may  now  observe,  be  secret  still.  How- 
ever strange  or  mysterious  may  appear  my  future  conduct,  at  pres- 
ent, disclose  nothing  that  you  know  concerning  me."  Then, 
squeezing  his  hand — "  Let  this  memorial  sometimes  claim  a  place, 
for  me  in  your  thoughts !" — and  he  sighed  heavily  as  he  slipped  a 
miniature  into  his  hands — George  put  it  in  his  bosom. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  sitting  and  sleeping  room — 
"  Here,  Sir  James,"  said  Mental,  "  I  eat  and  sleep  ;  'tis  my  whim  ; 
there's  no  statute  to  the  contrary,  I  believe,  Mr.  Chaplain?  That 


GEORGE     BARNIVELL.  47 

closet  will  open,  by  turning  the  handle  of  the  lock.  It  contains 
my  wardrobe,  a  few  changes  of  linen,  and  a  roquelaure.  The 
bayonet  and  belt,  that  hang  upon  that  peg,  T  once  wore — nay,  I 
once  used!  I  drew  human  blood  with  that  weapon — Christian 
blood,  Mr.  Sandall ;  English  blood,  Sir  James.  'Twas  an  un- 
happy cause  :  but  I  was  then  a  soldier  in  the  ranks,  and  endeavour- 
ed to  annihilate  the  powers  of  mind  that  I  possessed,  for  they  were 
useless ;  and  my  arm  sent  death  where  the  discretion  of  my  officers 
directed.  It  makes  me  cold  to  think  on  it.  I  see  the  belt  is  mouldy, 
and  the  bayonet  rusty.  I  wish  they  were  buried  in  the  plains  of 
Quebec.  There  is  nothing  else  worth  notice  in  this  room." 

They  entered  the  apartment  of  poor  old  Sarah,  who  was  in 
tears. 

"  Why — why — Sarah — Come,  come,  dry  these  tears — I  can 
bear  any  calamity  better  than  see  a  faithful  creature,  like  you,  mis- 
erable through  my  means,"  said  Mental. 

"  It  han't  for  myself,  it's  for  you  I  cry.  I  always  thought  it 
would  come  out." 

"Come  out!"  said  Sandall.  "  What  do  you  mean,  good  wo- 
man?" 

"  O,  the  study — the  study!" 

"  Poor  wretch  !"  cried  Mental. 

"What  about  the  study,  good  woman]"  said  Sandall t  and 
then  taking  Sir  James's  arm — "  Come,  lead  us  to  the  study." 

"  I  lead  you  to  the  study  ! — God  forbid  !  no,  no — let  them  that 
will,  go  for  me,"  cried  Sarah. 

George  recollected  her  former  dread  of  the  study. 

"  This  faithful  creature  has  resided  with  me  twenty  years," 
said  Mental.  "  In  all  that  time  she  has  not  seen  the  inside  of  my 
study.  I  spend  many  hours  there  alone ;  and  often  the  whole 
night,  if  it  rains,  and  I  am  prevented  from  walking  in  the  abbey, 
which  I  prefer  in  fine  weather.  The  circumstance  has  created  a 
mysterious  fear  in  poor  Sarah's  brain,  and  she  would  not  enter  the 
study,  I  believe,  to  save  her  life.  But  you  shall  yourselves  judge 
how  little  cause  of  terror  exists  there." 

As  they  were  leaving  the  room,  Sarah  took  an  opportunity,  un- 
perceived  by  Mental,  to  pull  Sandall  by  the  coat,  and  make  ear- 
nest signs  to  him  not  to  go.  George  himself  was  staggered  for  a 
moment  by  this  circumstance — but  Sandall  seemed  petrified  with 
terror. 

"  Come,  Sir  James,"  said  Mental,  "  I'll  show  you  this  study." 

They  moved  on.  At  the  door  of  the  kitchen  Sandall  turned 
round,  and  perceived  that  Sarah  had  dropped  upon  her  knees-,  and 
was  in  the  attitude  of  praying.  His  knees  tottered  as  he  ascended 
two  flights  of  stairs,  which  led  to  a  gallery,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  door,  which  Mental  informed  them  was  the  study.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  the  first  object  that  struck  their  sight  was,  the 
lid  of  a  coffin  covered  with  black  cloth  :  there  was  a  plate  fixed  on 
it,  with  this  inscription — 


49  GEORGE     BARNWELL 


.  SSHnor  JHnttsl, 

DIED    JULY    12-TH,    1722; 
AGED    22." 

George  cast  his  eyes  curiously  about  the  study,  and  appeared 
entering  in  his  memory  an  inventory  of  its  contents. 

The  coffin  lid  was  placed  upright  in  one  corner  of  the  room  ;  on 
a  corner  shelf  over  it  was  a  human  skull,  in  excellent  preservation  ; 
near  it  was  a  writing  table,  on  which  burnt  a  lamp,  the  shutters  of 
the  windows  being  continually  closed  ;  the  floor  was  strewed  with 
books,  pamphlets,  and  newspapers.  A  chest  under  the  desk  con- 
tained a  large  quantity  of  manuscript.  In  another  corner  stood  an 
electrical  machine,  covered  with  dust,  the  cylinder  broken.  In  an- 
other, a  furnace  had  been  raised  for  chymical  experiments,  but  had 
evidently  been  long  in  disuse,  and  was  half  concealed  by  broken 
crucibles  and  charcoal  dust.  The  general  appearance  of  the  place 
conveyed  the  most  gloomy  ideas,  and  its  furniture  constituted  mel- 
ancholy memorandums  of  energies  of  mind  decayed  and  faded  ;  as 
tattered  banners  and  broken  helmets  tell  of  some  valiant  arm  laid 
low! 

As  Mental  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  leaning  against  the  wain- 
Bcot,  Sir  James  and  Mr.  Sandall  alternately  fixed  an  eye  of  wonder 
on  the  apartment  and  its  mysterious  owner.  After  a  considerable 
silence  -  - 

"  Well,  Mr.  Sandall,"  said  Mental,  "  you  are  now  in  the  very 
council  chamber  of  your  supposed  secret  committee  !  —  You  have 
my  willing  permission  to  inspect  any  paper,  book,  or  drawer  ;  and 
if  the  appearance  of  this  place,  or  any  thing  in  it,  suggests  any 
questions,  even  of  curiosity,  I  will  as  truly  answer  it  as  if  I  were  on 
oath. 

"  That  piece  of  elm  covered  with  black  cloth,  was  intended  to  be 
buried  with  the  person  whose  name  is  inscribed  on  the  plate.  I  had 
some  regard  for  her  memory,  and  chose  to  have  it  preserved.  —  'Twas 
a  strange  fancy,  you  may  say—  -Be  it  so. 

"  That  structure  of  bone,  on  the  shelf  over  it,  I  also  kept  as  a 
memorandum  —  It  was  once  the  repository  of  much  intelligence  ; 
and  in  those  sockets  once  beamed  eyes  which  glistened  with  the 
dews  of  sensibility,  and  won  the  gazer's  admiration  ere  their  owner 
spoke.  Yet,  sir,  there  was  a  something  contained  within  that  skull, 
which  plotted  and  executed  the  most  mischievous  damnation  that 
ever  blasted  the  tender  blossoms  of  human  hope!  •!  now  gaze 
upon  it  by  the  hour,  and  wonder  where  the  animating  spirit  of  the 
deserted  cavity  has  fled  !  —  We  can  gather  no  intelligence  of  this 
nature,  Mr.  Sandall.  Science  is  ignorance,  and  genius  madness, 
as  to  such  information. 

"  That  machine,  whose  electrical  powers  have  amused  me  many 
a  year,  attracted  for  a  while  the  powers  of  my  reason  ;  till,  having 
gained  a  thorough  knowledge  of  its  principles,  my  mind  sought 


GEORGE     BARK  WELL.  49 

novelty.  The  labours  of  chymistry  kept  me  still  longer  in  play  ; 
till  at  length  research  was  satisfied.  But  nothing  I  can  read,  noth- 
ing I  can  study,  resolves  me  what  I  am ! — whence  I  came  ! — or 
whither  I  shall  go  !  This  perplexity  may,  and  I  know  does,  trouble 
me  more  than  many  men.  1  own,  too,  its  inutility — Yet,  be  the 
torture  of  doubts  its  punishment ;  and  let  me  not  incur  suspicions 
that  I  do  not  merit.  I  know  no  Illuminati,  Mr.  Sandall." 

"  Why,  sir,  I — I — am  surprised  at — your  odd  ways.  I — I  have 
no  reason  to  doubt  your  good  intentions — But  it  appears  strange, 
that  a  person  of  your  sense— that  is,  it  is — as  I  may  say — at  is  sur- 
prising " — stammered  out  Mr.  Sandall 

"  Spare  yourself,  sir,"  said  Mental,  "  and  I  will  spare  you  also  ; 
for  I  perceive  you  are  not  such  a  being  as  a  man  of  any  strength  of 
mind  ought  to  be  offended  with.  Therefore,  though  you  are  the 
means  of  again  unsettling  me — -the  busy  meddler  that  once  more 
drives  me  from  a  spot  I  chose  to  die  on— yet  I,  atheist  as  you  deem 
me,  can  be  so  much  a  Christian  as  to  forgive  you. 

"  To  you,  Sir  James,  I  owe  a  fuller  explanation.  In  a  few  words, 
then,  sir,  I  am  a  miserable  man  ! — whose  views  of  happiness  have 
been  almost  constantly  obscured  by  unexpected  blights  and  storms, 
just  as  I  thought  them  mine  :  and  being  of  a  frame  and  constitution, 
perhaps,  ill  suited  to  these  buffetings  of  fortune,  I  find  they  have 
inflicted  wounds  upon  my  heart  which  have  engendered  a  disease, 
whose  baneful  influence  has  made  me  seem  the  thing  you  see  me — 
What  I  really  am,  is  my  own  concern — But  I  am  sorry  that,  if,  by 
word  or  act,  I  have  offended  you  ;  and  I  know  I  have. 

"  You,  Sir  James,  are  happily  not  troubled  with  the  mania  of 
inquiry,  and  are  content  to  take  this  world  as  you  find  it.  I  have 
too  frequently  indulged  a  pettishness  of  mind  at  your  expense,  when 
I  have  aimed  to  decompose  that  order  of  things,  and  system  of  soci- 
ety, with  which  I  am  dissatisfied.  Let  me,  then,  make  you  the 
only  recompense  I  can,  by  a  solemn  and  sincere  assurance,  that 
what  I  have  frequently  uttered  in  your  presence  has  been  the  off- 
spring of  a  distorted  fancy — a  sickly  heart— a  feverish,  giddy  brain. 
Let  me  assure  you,  sir,  I  am  no  wiser  man,  because  I  can  detect 
an  error  in  another's  creed— I  am  no  happier  man,  because  I  laugh 
at  others'  hopes  of  future  life  and  bliss.  No,  no,  sir  ;  I  know  now 
less  than  when  I  was  a  boy :  the  learning  and  the  sciences- of  men 
have  but  confused  the  simple  thoughts  of  nature  ;  and  as  to  happi- 
ness—Hah ! — ha  ! — ha ! — (grinning  horribly) — this  world  affords  me 
no  prospect  of  peace ;  and  as  to  futurity,  my  doubts  obscure  all  hope. 

"  Thus  much  I  owed  to  you,  Sir  James  ;  but  the  suspicions  of 
this  reverend  gentleman  are  as  groundless  as  they  are  mean,  and 
unbecoming  that  faith  which  teaches  charity  !" 

Sir  James  apologized.  Mr.  Sandall  bowed,  and  stammered; 
and,  after  examining  a  few  empty  apartments,  they  retired. 

On  their  return  home,  the  knight  published  Mr.  Mental's  inno- 
cence, and  sent  a  servant  to  his  house  with  the  articles  found  in  the 
haunted  aisle. 


60  GEORGE     BARNWKLL. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

Ah  me  !  the  prospect  saddened  as  she  sung : 
Loud  on  my  startled  enr  the  death-bell  rung : 

Chill  darkness  wrapt  the  pleasurable  bow'rs, 
While  Horror,  pointing  to  yon  breathless  clay, 

"  No  peace  be  thiue  !"  exclaimed — "  Away,  away." — BOWLES. 

TOWARDS  evening  on  the  following  day,  as  George  was  saunter- 
ing near  home,  a  post-chaise  passed  him,  in  which  were  Mental 
and  his  old  servant. 

At  the  lodge  gate  the  porter  delivered  him  a  packet.  Conclud- 
ing it  came  from  Mental,  he  hastened  with  it  to  his  apartment,  and 
broke  the  seal.  On  a  slip  of  paper  was  written  the  following  note  : 

"The  events  of  yesterday  drive  me  from  a  retreat  in  which  I  had  hoped  to  die.  I 
shall  see  you  no  more  till  we  meet  in  London.  In  that  polluted  place  I  shall  awhile 
reside.  I  shall  discover  your  abode,  and  will  not  fail  to  see  you. 

"  In  the  meantime,  I  have  hastily  composed,  for  your  perusal,  the  sequel  of  my  me- 
lancholy story.  You  will  perceive  what  a  blank  there  is  in  my  affections — how  cold 
and  empty  a  space  my  bosom  has  become.  Sometimes  I  think,  that  if  the  glow  of  so- 
cial feeling  is  ever  more  to  warm  my  frozen  breast,  it  must  be  kindled  by  yourself. 
But  if  my  story  fail  to  gain  the  tear  of  sympathy,  I  trust  it  may  at  least  be  beneficial 
to  you  as  a  warning. 

"  Farewell.  May  the  present  tranquillity  of  your  breast  never  be  exchanged  for 
the  torture  that  racks  the  bosom  of  MENTAI.." 

The  narrative  ran  thus  : — 

"  There  resided  near  our  cottage,  at  Walworth,  a  youth  of  fortune,  who  visited  us, 
and  became  our  intimate  acquaintance.  I  soon  discovered  in  him  uncommon  genius 
and  ardent  feelings. 

"This  youth,  with  about  ten  or  eleven  others,  of  similar  dispositions  and  talents,  had 
formed  themselves  into  a  club,  for  the  purpose  of  candid  and  free  inquiry.  I  had  the 
honour  of  being  invited  a  member. 

•'  My  friend  possessing,  from  his  fortune,  a  considerable  influence  with  the  club,  his 
patronage  procured  me  a  respect  I  otherwise  was  not  entitled  to  ;  and  I  was  elected 
their  secretary.  I  say  nothing  of  our  labours,  which  were  published  at  a  joint  ex- 
pense, and  circulated  with  a  zeal  beyond  description. 

"Experience,  however,  has  taught  me  one  truth,  that  every  structure  of  morality  or 
philosophy  we  raise  upon  the  ruins  of  those  we  overthrow,  is  unable  to  stand  the  test 
of  practical  experiment,  and  are,  many  of  them  at  least,  greater  nuisances  iu  society 
than  those  we  attempt  to  destroy. 

"  As  secretary  of  this  society,  my  house  became  a  sort  of  rendezvous  for  its  members. 
My  Elinor  and  I  were  delighted  iit  our  good  fortune  in  this  respect,  as  it  afforded  us 
many  hours  of  rational  amusement  in  the  conversation  of  men  of  taste  and  letters. 

"Among  others  was  a  celebrated  painter  of  that  day.  He  had  a  person  of  manly 
beauty  ;  a  countenance  expressive  of  the  most  tender  sympathies  ;  his  manners  were 
engaging;  his  converse  truly  captivating.  We  delighted  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Lin- 
more,  and  he  seemed  to  receive  an  equal  satisfaction  in  ours — His  gratitude  for  the 
humble  entertainment  our  roof  afforded  him  was  beyond  all  bounds.  His  paintings 
were  the  ornaments  of  our  rooms,  and  the  testimonies  of  his  favour. 

"  We  passed  the  greater  part  of  a  year  in  a  state  the  nearest  to  bliss  I  ever  saw  on 
earth.  Fortune  seemed  determined  to  heap  her  favours  on  us  all  at  once;  for  in  the 
course  of  this  period  Mr.  Nutting,  the  grocer,  died  ;  and  smitten  with  the  injustice  of 
possessing  the  fortune  which  Elinor's  conduct  bestowed  upon  him,  on  his  death-bed 
made  a  will,  by  which  she  regained  her  right  to  a  property  that  made  us  completely 
independent. 

"Now,  mark  the  fickleness  of  fortune.  Just  as  the  sun  of  prosperity  was  ascending 
the  meridian,  and  his  beams  had  gilded  a  wide  and  beauteous  landscape  of  enchanting 
hopes,  a  little  sable  cloud  sprung  up,  and  floated  in  a  corner  of  the  hemisphere.  It 
(ailed  towards  my  dwelling.  It  swelled  as  it  drew  near  ;  it  increased  till  the  sun  wag 
hidden  from  my  sight;  and  then,  descending  burst  upon  my  head,  overwhelmed  all 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  51 

prospects  of  the  hopes  1  had  beheld,  and  left  me  nothing  to  contemplate,  save  the  fright- 
ful desolations  of  despair! 

"  To  dwell  as  little  as  possible  upon  a  subject  that  shakes  every  .nerve  with  horror 
at  its  remembrance,  know,  then,  young  man,  that  this  specious  moralist,  this  zealous 
friend,  this  smooth-speech  ed  Liumore,  proved  himself  a  most  consummate  villain. 

"  He  came  to  our  dwelling,  and  found  Peace,  Innocence,  and  Love,  its  inmates  ;  he 
caw  as  fund  a  pair  as  Nature  ever  designed  for  each  other's  bosom.  What,  then,  was 
that  principle  that  could  excite  within  his  breast  the  horrid  purpose,  the  execrable, 
vile  design,  to  mar  such  bliss  ?  With  the  dissembled  visage  of  benevolence,  he  must 
have  borne  a  heart  that  languished  for  the  murder  of  his  species,  or  how  could  he  deli- 
berately have  planned  the  destruction  of  one  of  Nature's  noblest  works! 

"You  have  not  yet  felt  the  influence  of  love ;  you  cannot,  therefore,  feel  like  those 
who  have.  But  if  you  shall  ever  love,  if  all  the  mental  energies,  and  all  the  glow  of 
passion,  that  constitute  the  essence  of  existence  in  your  nature,  ever  centre  in  one 

Foiiit,  fix  on  one  object — you  may  then  conceive  what  I  experienced,  when  all  at  once, 
found  that  object  vanished.  O!  what  a  chilling  void  I  felt  in  my  breast!  Such  it 

became,  soon  as  suspicion  pointed  to  her  dishonour;  but,  when  I  tell  you Alas' 

my  poor  brain  cannot  bear  the  recollection ! *  *  *  * 

"With  trembling  hand  I  take  my  pen  once  more. — Circumstances  awakened  in  my 
breast  a  jealousy  of  Linmore,  and  determined  me  to  watch  his  every  emotion. 

"Start  not: — my  jealousy  was  well  founded — The  damn'd  darts  of  the  arch  fiend 
succeeded — Virtue  was  subdued,  and  treacherous  lust  triumphant — O  !  that  the  light- 
nings of  heaven  had  blasted  him  or  me,  ere  I  had  seen  the  smiling  murderer! 

"One  fatal  day,  when,  having  pretended  a  day's  absence,  I  concealed  myself  at 
home,  I  saw  her  enter  her  chamber,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Linmore  followed.  This 
was  conviction  ;  and  all  the  powers  of  my  reason  fell  beneath  the  impulse  of  revenge 
— My  hand  instinctively  grasped  a  dagger  that  was  near  me — I  rushed  into  the  room, 
and,  aiming  a  just  reward  at  the  seducer's  heart,  the  cursed  villain  shrunk  from  my 
vengeance,  and  it  fell  on  the  poor,  lost  Elinor ! 

"  The  coward  fled,  and  I  was  discovered  kneeling  by  my  bleeding  wife,  the  fatal 
weapon  still  buried  in  her  breast. 

"  In  that  moment  of  agony,  I  know  not  what  occurred.  I  was  dragged  by  force  from 
the  body,  and  confined,  in  my  own  house,  under  the  care  of  some  medical  gentlemen. 

"  In  a  few  days  my  senses  returned,  and  I  was  able  to  give  some  account  of  the  hor- 
rible transaction  ;  which  being  corroborated  by  the  circumstance  of  Linmore's  flight, 
the  coroner's  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  accidental  death,  and  the  remains  of  my  poor 
Elinor  were  interred. 

"  Though  I  was  not  then  deemed  a  madman,  my  reason  had  sustained  a  shock  it 
never  has  perfectly  recovered. 

"  When  I  looked  back  upon  the  happiness  I  had  enjoyed,  and  gazed  upon  the  dread- 
ful wreck  around  me,  my  blood  now  chilled  to  ice — now  flowed  like  burning  lava 
through  my  veins — and  my  affrighted  reason  fled  at  the  horrid  view  !  My  adoration 
of  the  object  would  scarcely  allow  me  to  believe  her  false,  and  my  love  seemed  unac- 
countably increased  I 

"  She  was  then  in  her  coffin — I  flew  to  it— I  threw  myself  in  agony  upon  it ;  nor 
would  I  quit  it,  till  my  strange  wish  was  gratified,  in  preserving  the  coffin  lid,  as  a 
memento,  to  be  ever  in  my  sight.  Another  was  accordingly  made. 

"  After  her  interment,  I  secluded  myself  some  months  from  the  world.  Human  na- 
ture- suffered  a  degradation  indeed  in  my  estimation.  I  grew  disgusted  with  mankind, 
and  with  the  system  of  the  moral  government  of  the  universe.  Vet  I  had  not  then  ex- 
perienced more  than  half  the  misery  I  have  since  endured. 

"  My  cottage  at  Walworth  now  became  frightful ;  every  room  reminded  me  of  some 
happy  scene !  and  brought  to  mind  my  Elinor !  They  brought  to  me  my  child — O,  how 
it  chilled  my  blood  to  look  at  her !  I  thought  her  little  eyas  seemed  to  dart  reproach 
and  vengeance  on  her  mother's  murderer — I  could  not  bear  her  presence! 

"  After  some  time  I  determined  to  quit  not  only  Walworth,  but  England ;  and  went 
to  reside  in  America. 

"  I  placed  my  daughter  under  the  care  of  a  respectable  person  in  the  neighbourhood  ; 
made  an  ample  provision  for  her  education  ;  and,  in  case  of  my  death,  had  left  her  the 
whole  of  her  mother's  fortune. 

"Now,  sir,  let  your  imagination,  and  your  pity,  follow  a  heart-broken  man  to 
another  quarter  of  the  globe  ;  and  even  there  you  will  find  that  misery  pursued  him. 

"Scarcely  was  I  settled  in  any  degree  of  intimacy  with  any  of  my  fellow  creatures, 
and  had  begun  to  feel  something  like  humanity  reviving  in  my  heart,  when  those  trou- 
bles, of  which  the  world  knows  so  well,  broke  out 

"  My  friend  was  an  American  by  birth,  and  sided  with  Congress.  My  opinions, 
though  they  did  not  coincide  with  the  rulers  of  England,  yet  compelled  me  to  resist 
the  entreaties  of  my  friend  to  take  up  arms  against  my  mother  country.  I  would  have 

3 


52  GEORGE     BARNW  ELL. 

remained  neater,  but  that  could  not  be ;  and  thus,  soon  as  my  heart  began  to  cherish 
a  love  for  my  friend,  my  arm  was  lifted  to  destroy  him.  'TV as  then  I  was  compelled 
to  wear  and  use  the  arms  you  saw  at  my  residence.  But  let  me  bury  in  oblivion  my 
country's  shame ! 

"One  instance  of  retributive  justice  I  met  with  in  America,  which,  in  some  degree, 
reconciled  me  to  the  notion  of  a  Providence.  The  villain,  Linmore,  who  had  made 
that  cou.itry  his  refuge,  was  in  prison  when  I  arrived  there,  implicated  in  a  charge  of 
murder.  He  was  one  of  the  party  where  murder  ensued,  in  consequence  of  an  unlaw- 
ful project.  He  was  executed,  and  dissected.  I  offered  any  price  for  bis  skeleton, 
and  did  actually  obtain  the  skull,  which  you  saw  in  my  closet . 

"  Disgusted  with  the  scenes  which  passed  before  me,  I  embraced  the  first  opportu- 
nity of  returning  to  England,  and  bought  the  estate  of  the  abbey,  near  your  uncle's. 

"  This  retreat  suited  me  well.  Its  distance  from  any  other  dwelling,  the  romantic 
scenery  around  it,  and  the  gloomy  walks  among  the  abbey  ruins,  accorded  well  with 
'my  soul's  sadness.' 

"  The  old  woman  I  retained  as  my  servant  had  lived  some  time  in  the  house  before 
I  bought  it.  When  I  received  the  little  furniture  I  wanted,  I  deposited  the  coffin  lid, 
and  the  Unman  skull,  in  my  study  ;  and  from  that  moment  the  poor  woman  resolved 
nerrer  to  enter  it.  Here  I  had  proposed  to  end  my  days  of  disappointment  aud 
remorse. 

"Time  will  not  now  permit  me  to  describe  the  state  of  my  troubled  mind. — Shook  to 
its  foundation  was  my  faith  in  all  revealed  religion.  I  employed  whole  nights  in  the 
painful  study  of  metaphysics,  with  no  other  reward  than  a  confirmation  or  increase  of 
doubts.  Resolving  to  give  over  every  other  pursuit  of  that  nature,  I  flew  for  amuse- 
ment to  chemistry,  electricity,  anatomy,  and  grew  tired  of  each. 

" Hating  the  sight  of  human  beings,  I  general. y  kept  close  at  borne  all  day,  and 
walked  among  the  ruins  when  others  slept 

"  Among  a  few  other  memorandums  of  my  former  happiness,  I  reserved  the  harp 
discovered  in  the  old  aisle : — it  was  my  Elinor's  delight ! 

"  Annexed  to  these  memoirs  are  several  pieces  of  poetry,  which  I  composed  in  the 
calm  silence  of  midnight,  at  the  abbey — they  all  relate  to  my  poor  Elinor,  whom  1 
have  there  called  Louisa! 

'•  Thus  rolled  away  year  after  year.  I  only  saw  the  active  world  through  the  medi- 
um of  report.  Newspapers,  pamphlets,  reviews,  and  various  publications  showed  me 
the  bustling  scenes  of  men,  on  which  I  gazed  an  unconcerned  spectator. — Yet  there 
was  still  one  object  in  the  world,  for  whom  ray  heart  felt  a  glowing  interest — my 
daughter !  My  young  Elinor  often  started  to  the  vision  of  my  memory,  and  painted  me 
with  the  dreadful  anticipation  of  her  fate  in  such  a  world  of  treachery  and  wo. 

"I  heard  frequently  from  her  governess,  but  I  could  never  bring  myself  to  fee  her. 
The  accounts  I  received  were,  with  little  variation,  satisfactory,  until  her  eighteenth 
rear  ;  when,  all  at  once,  a  letter  came  with  tidings  that,  without  any  known  cause,  she 
*._d  eloped  ! 

"  Any  attempt  to  describe  my  feelings  at  this  intelligence  were  Tain.  I  reproached 
myself  as  the  author  of  her  guilty  fate,  in  having  abandoned  her  education  to  stran- 
gers. 

"A  severe  illness  followed  this  intelligence,  which  threatened  my  dissolution. — 
Every  etibrt  to  discover  her  proved  unavailing.  Where  she  is.  or  whether  she  exists 
at  all,  I  know  not.  Thus  misery  weighs  down  my  declining  years  ;  acd  yet  I  live — 
live  in  torturing  suspense  as  to  my  child — in  dreadful  doubt  as  to  her  fate.  Will  you, 
then,  not  pity  a  miserable  old  man,  almost  distracted,  and  commiserate  his  fate ! — 
Talk  of  him  as  litt'e  as  possible  ;  but  when  his  name  is  mentioned,  do  that  justice  to 
his  ,-iory  which  these  memoirs  enable  you. 

"  In  London  I  shall  see  you  ;  till  then,  farewell,  youth.  Thy  breast  is  pure — thy 
lumbers  are  sweet: — May  they  ever  be  *o.  Farewell.  MENTAL.'' 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  53 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Rank  abundance  breeds 
In  gross  and  pamper'd  cities,  sloth  and  lust, 
And  wantonness,  and  gluttonous  excess ; 
Such  London  is  by  taste  and  wealth  proclaim'd 
The  fairest  capital  in  all  the  world  ; 
By  riot  and  incontinence  the  worst.-— COWPER. 

THE  departure  of  Mental  from  the  abbey  was  soon  buzzed  around 
the  country,  and  various  stories  were  circulated  concerning  him. 

Whilst  curiosity,  or  the  love  of  scandal  actuated  the  many, 
George  felt  his  heart  warmly  interested  in  the  fate  of  so  unhappy  a 
fellow  creature,  and  sighed  earnestly  for  the  power  of  alleviating 
his  sorrows. 

The  tender  hearted  Eliza  and  the  benevolent  Mrs.  Barn  well, 
to  whom  he  had  communicated  the  outlines  of  the  melancholy  tale, 
united  in  commiseration  for  the  sufferings  of  a  man,  whose  life,  al- 
most from  infancy,  had  been  marked  by  disappointment  and  sorrow. 

"  How  much  is  he  to  be  pitied  !"  said  Mrs.  Barnwell ; — "  his 
heart  torn  with  the  keenest  sorrows,  and  his  mind  prevented  by 
scepticism  from  reposing  in  the  consolations  of  religion.  Let  his 
story,  my  dear  George,  teach  you  the  value  of  those  truths  a  de- 
parted saint  early  instilled  into  your  mind,  and  never  suffer  the 
subtlety  of  eloquence  to  destroy  those  impressions  which  Christian- 
ity has  formed  in  your  heart." 

"  How  unfortunate  for  him,"  said  George,  "  that  doctrines  so 
admirably  adapted  to  the  human  heart,  should  have  been  presented 
to  his  view  in  so  distorted  a  shape  as  they  were  by  the  Nuttings. 
It  surely  is  not  assuming  too  much,  to  attribute  his  rejection  of  all 
revelation  to  that  circumstance.  Such  a  mind  as  Mental's  would 
doubtless  have  received  the  uncorrupted  principles  of  Christianity  as 
congenial  to  its  wants,  and  its  expectations,  and  would  not  have  re- 
mained, as  at  present,  an  unorganized  mass  of  useless  energies, 
which  are  attracted  to  one  centre  ;  but,  flying  off  at  all  points, 
rouse  the  imagination  of  the  most  painful  doubts,  and  leave  the 
heart  unbenefitted  by  their  operations." 

"  Your  remarks  are  certainly  just,"  replied  Mrs.  Barnwell  ; 
"  and  it  affords  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  hear  such  observations 
fall  from  a  son  I  am  so  soon  to  part  with.  In  the  long  absence  we 
are  to  suffer,  it  will  be  no  inconsiderable  source  of  pleasing  re- 
flection, that  you  leave  us  with  such  sentiments. 

"  The  scenes  in  which  you  are  about  to  perform  a  part,  my 
George,  are  of  a  complexion  that  dazzle  and  intoxicate  the  mind  ; 
and  you  will  have  occasion  frequently  to  recur  to  those  principles 
for  direction ;  let  me  hope  you  will  ever  make  them  your  guide, 
and  then,  I  am  persuaded,  I  shall  never  blush  at  the  mention  of  my 
son." 

Conversations  of  a  similar  nature  frequently  took  place  till  the 
day  of  departure  arrived,  when  George,  with  abundant  proofs  of 


54  GEORGE     BA.RNWEL1. 

the  liberality  of  his  uncle,  quitted  his  hospitable  roof,  which  still 
remained  the  asylum  of  his  mother  and  Eliza. 

For  the  first  time  George  entered  the  metropolis — for  the  first 
thne  breathed  the  fashionable  air  of  Portland  Place,  where  Mr. 
Emery  resided. 

From  the  account  George  had  received  from  Mental  of  the 
meanness  and  avarice  of  traders,  he  was  not  a  little  surprised  to 
observe  the  elegant  appearance  of  Mr.  Emery's  residence.  His  as- 
tonishment increased,  when,  upon  admission  into  the  hall,  he  was 
surrounded  by  four  or  five  stout,  tall  fellows,  in  blue  and  silver, 
large  bunches  of  flowers  in  their  bosoms,  and  white  cambric  hand- 
kerchiefs in  their  hands.  The  youth  was  absolutely  confused,  and 
felt  some  difficulty  in  persuading  these  gentlemen  of  the  ceremo- 
nies to  procure  him  an  audience  of  Mr.  Emery,  who  was  entertain- 
ing the  cabinet  ministers  that  evening  at  dinner,  at  his  own  table. 

They  condescended,  however,  at  length,  to  show  him  to  a  par- 
lour, where,  in  about  an  hour  afterwards,  Mr.  Emery  came  to 
him  ;  George  having  sent  in  his  name. 

Instead  of  the  merchant  of  the  old  school  George  expected  to 
meet,  Mr.  Emery  was  a  man  of  the  most  elegant  deportment, 
dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion. 

He  entered  the  room  in  style  so  commanding,  yet  easy,  that  his 
presence  bespoke  the  most  accomplished  manners. 

"  I  am  extremely  concerned,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  very  particu- 
lar people  are  with  me  to-day,  and  prevents  my  receiving  you  more 
agreeably  with  my  wishes,  and  the  respect  due  to  a  nephew  of 
Sir  James  Barnwell.  Allow  me,  however,  to  congratulate  you 
upon  your  safe  arrival,  and  to  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Emery  and  her 
daughters." 

George  apologized  for  his  appearance,  and  would  have  avoided 
the  introduction. 

"  O,  by  no  means,"  said  Mr.  Emery,  ringing — "  In  what  part 
of  the  house  is  your  mistress?"  said  he  to  the  servant  who  ap- 
peared. 

"  The  ladies  have  drove  down  to  the  Pavilion  this  morning,  sir; 
and  do  not  return  till  to-morrow." 

"  That's  unfortunate,  indeed  ;  but  you  will  excuse  me,  I'm  sure  ; 
we  shall  be  better  acquainted  soon,  and  apologies  will  become  un- 
necessary,— William,  serve  dinner  in  this  room  to  my  friend,  Mr. 
Barnwell,  and  tell  the  butler  to  bring  what  wine  he  orders." 

With  a  cordial  shake  of  the  hand,  Mr.  Emery  left  his  young 
friend  to  a  soliloquy,  full  of  wonder,  at  the  scenes  before  him.  The 
manner  in  which  he  was  received  astonished  him  . — Cabinet  minis- 
ters dining  with  a  merchant  was  a  novelty  to  him  ;  but  more  strange 
than  every  thing  else,  appeared  the  idea  of  a  man's  not  knowing 
whether  his  wife  and  daughters  were  at  home,  or  in  the  country. 

A  profuse  dinner  was  served  up,  consisting  of  every  delicacy 
that  the  season  afforded,  and  in  a  style  of  elegance  beyond  all 
George  had  ever  seen. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  55 

It  was  near  ten  o'clock  when  he  had  finished  his  sumptuous  din- 
ner ;  and  about  eleven,  he  was  thinking  of  retiring  to  rest,  when 
Mr.  Emery  entered,  introducing  a  young  man,  apparently  about 
twenty,  of  an  effeminate  countenance,  and  delicate  frame. 

"  Mr.  Barnwell,"  said  he,  "  this  is  a  pupil  of  mine.  Mr.  Rig- 
by,  let  me  recommend  Mr.  Barnwell  to  your  friendship.  I  have 
mentioned  him  to  you  before." 

"  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  rendering  you  any  service,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Rigby. 

Mr.  Emery  retired,  calling  to  the  servants  in  the  hall — "  The 
chariot  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

The  pupils  were  left  together.  What  a  contrast  did  they  form  ! 
George's  cheeks  glowed  with  health — Rigby's  were  sunk  and  pale  ; 
George's  form  and  limbs  proclaimed  the  temperance  and  exercise 
he  used — Rigby's  slender  legs  and  shrivelled  arms  as  plainly  de- 
clared a  life  of  sloth  and  intemperance.  The  dress  of  the  former 
was  simple  and  manly — that  of  the  latter  disgustingly  effeminate  : 
his  whole  appearance  prejudiced  George  against  him,  whilst  he  in 
return  considered  George  as  a  boor. 

"  The  chariot  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  was  echoed  three  or 
four  times  in  the  hall. 

George  could  not  refrain  from  asking  whether  any  thing  particu- 
lar drew  Mr.  Emery  abroad  so  late. 

"  So  late  ! — Eh,  demme  !  that's  neat — Excusez  moi.  Upon  my 
soul,  1  can't  help  laughing  !" — which  laughing  was  merely  a  hec- 
tic barking.  "  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  be  very  raw,  very 
green,  indeed  ! — excusez  moi — it's  not  eleven!" — whirling  a  gold 
watch  round  by  the  chain — "  The  Principal's  only  going  his  usual 
round." 

"  May  I  be  so  free  as  to  inquire  what  you  mean  by  that  phrase, 
Mr.  Rigby?  I  believe  you  know  I  am  a  stranger  in  London." 

"  O  yes ;    excusez  moi— that's  plain  enough  !     However,  one 
should  not  be  too  severe.     I  remember  when  I — I — I— was  as  great 
a  quiz— excusez  moi — as  you,  sir.     By  going  his  round  I  mean  look- 
ing in  at  the  opera — squeezing  a  new  figurante — lounging  in  the 
way  of  the  scene-shifters,  and  getting  hissed  off  the  stage.     Then 
whirl  to  Lady  Strongbox — splash  away  the  Spanish — make  an  as- 
signation for  the  morning,  and  off  again  to  the  House — take  a  lounge 
there  for  an  hour — get  a  bow  from  the  Treasury  Bench — gape  at  Dr. 
Sceptic's  doubts — and  then  to   Brookes's — lose  a  trifle — get  the 
headache — and  dash  home  with  two  flambeaux  by  daylight !" 
\      "  You  are  very  happy  at  a  description,  Mr.  Rigby,"  said  George  : 
,"  a  little  ad  libitum  in  the  colours  though,  I  presume." 
(     "  No,  demme,  not  I — I'm,  a  plain  matter  of  fact,  absolutely. 
But  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  till  bed-time?" 
"  That  time  is  come  with  me,  sir,  for  I  am  fatigued." 
"  To  bed  at  eleven  o'clock— O,  horrible  !     For  heaven's  sake 
sham  sick,  my  good  fellow ;  sham  sick,  or  the  servants  will  die 
with  a  convulsion  of  laughter  !" «- 


56  GEORGE     BARNWELt,. 

George  smiled  ;  Mr.  Rigby  supposed  at  his  wit;  it  was,  in  fact, 
at  his  folly. 

How  wide  a  field  for  reflection  did  the  incidents  of  the  last  few 
hours  open  to  a  mind  like  George's,  ever  active  and  discerning,  and 
"  never  less  alone,  than  when  alone." 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

Sound,  unbroken  youth, 
Health  ever  blooming — unambitious  toil — 
Calm  contemplation — and  poetic  ease. — THOMSON. 

FROM  the  specimens  he  had  seen  on  the  day  of  his  arrival,  George 
was  prepared  to  expect  a  very  different  style  of  living  from  that 
which  he  had  anticipated  in  the  country,  and  such  was  the  reality. 

He  was  established  in  Mr.  Emery's  house  in  the  capacity  rather 
of  a  private  secretary  than  a  clerk.  Instead  of  being  confined  from 
an  early  hour  in  the  morning  till  late  at  night,  in  posting  legers  and 
copying  invoices,  as  Sir  James  had  taught  him  to  expect,  and  as 
was  the  case  with  all  merchants'  clerks  when  Sir  James  was  in 
trade,  George  found  that  the  sons,  or  nephews,  or  cousins  of  mer- 
chants, who  threw  a  capital  into  the  firm,  underwent  no  such  drudg- 
ery, which  is  consigned  to  boys  who  had  learnt  to  write  fine  hands 
at  charity  schools. 

About  eleven  o'clock,  George  usually  went  from  Portland  Place 
to  the  counting-house,  Broad-street  Buildings,  where  Mr.  Drudge, 
the  fagging  partner,  resided.  Any  communications  of  consequence, 
between  Mr.  Emery  and  Mr.  Drudge,  were  conveyed  by  George ; 
as  well  as  papers  that  required  the  signature  of  the  former,  who 
seldom  visited  the  counting-house  himself. 

From  Broad-street  Buildings  to  Batson'scoflfee-honse  was  a  reg- 
ular one-o'clock  walk  for  George,  where  he  met  the  rich  Jew 
brokers,  and  made  Mr.  Emery's  proposals  for  the  barter  of  bullion, 
consols,  omnium,  or  lottery,  according  to  previous  instructions ; 
which,  from  his  intimacy  with  ministers,  gave  generally  the  tone  to 
the  market. 

At  three  he  paraded  the  Royal  Exchange,  and  invited  the  foreign 
merchants  to  dine  in  Portland  Place,  which  completed  the  labours 
of  the  day  ;  except  on  particular  occasions,  when  letters  of  confi- 
dence were  to  be  copied,  or  memorials  for  contracts  sent  to  the 
Treasury. 

Such  a  slender  portion  of  employ  left  void  a  large  space  of  time 
for  his  own  inclination  to  fill  up. 

It  being  but  the  commencement  of  the  season,  Mrs.  Emery  and 
her  daughters  were  seldom  in  town  ;  and  Mr.  Emery  was  scarcely 
visible  in  his  own  house,  except  at  a  few  dinners,  surrounded  by 
company . 

Mr.  Rigby,  in  addition  to  an  extreme  opposition  of  taste  and 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  57 

pursuits,  had  the  motives  of  jealousy  and  envy  to  render  George, 
disgustful  to  him  ;  aad  therefore  beyond  the  ceremonials  of  OCCP. 
sional  meetings,  they  never  spoke  to  each  other. 

Thus  leisure  for  a  considerable  time,  was  a!so  solitude  to  Geore>'. 
who  had  refused  several  invitations  to  visits,  tor  the  vulgar  reason 
of  not  liking  the  party. 

A  well  stored  library  was  his  usual  lounge  after  dinner,  and  iu 
the  evening,  he  amused  himself  with  music,  or  drawing  ,  in  a  fa- 
miliar correspondence  with  his  sister  ;  and  occasionally  of  attempts 
at  poetry,  of  which  he  was  fond  to  excess. 

The  library  of  Mr.  Emery  comprised  an  assemblage  of  literature 
in  all  its  branches,  and  the  privilege  of  access  to  such  a  store  was, 
perhaps,  the  greatest  happiness  George  had  ever  experienced. 

Having,  one  afternoon,  finished  reading  Dr.  Gregory's  life  of  the 
unfortunate  Chatterton,  he  was  detected  in  tears  by  the  servant 
who  brought  him  his  tea  and  the  evening  papers. 

George  hastily  snatched  up  the  newspaper,  to  conceal  his  emo- 
tion, and  cast  his  eyes  rapidly  over  its  contents. 

Whilst  his  heart  beat  indignant  at  the  fate  of  Chatterton,  a  para- 
graph presented  itself,  in  which  the  enormous  sums  paid  in  one 
season  to  Didelot  and  his  wife  for  dancing  at  the  opera  were. enu- 
merated. 

"  Good  God  !"  exclaimed  he,  when  he  was  left  to  himself,  "  how 
small  a  portion  of  this  wealth  might  have  saved  to  England,  and 
to  the  world  another  Milton  !" 

His  ardent  mind  pursued  the  melancholy  thought  and  he  penned 
the  following  sonnet : 

SONNET. 

Blush— Blush  ye  great!   to  hear  the  frequent  sigh 
Despair  extorts  from  many  a  Briton's  breast, 
Inspired  by  Genius,  and  by  Want  deprest, 

Whose  life  is  misery — whose  hope — to  diet 

Whilst  iu  your  gorgeous  theatres,  behold, 
From  foreign  shores  a  pantomimic  band 
Sublimely  daring — on  one  leg  to  stand, 

Delishts  your  folly,  and  receives  your  gold. 

O  sons  of  Levily.  with  hearts  of  air, 
Awake,  arise  from  Fashion's  flowery  bed  ; 
Go  search  where  Genius  lies,  unhous'd,  unfed  ; 

And  rescue  suffering  Merit  from  despair  ; 
Unbend  stern  Suicide's  determined  brow. 
And  give  his  palsied  heart  with  gratitude  to  glow! 

Such  were  his  pursuits,  such  his  propensities  ;  a  conduct  so  dif- 
ferent from  other  young  men  of  his  age,  was  the  source  of  ridicule 
all  over  the  house.  The  footmen  as  they  picked  their  teeth  after 
dinner,  "  wondered  where  the  devil  the  Hottentot  was  bred  ?"  The 
maids  "  never  saw  such  an  insipid  creature  in  their  lives — sup- 
posed he  had  left  his  heart  behind  him,  if  indeed,  he  ever  had  any  ;" 
whilst  Mrs.  Jennings,  the  housekeeper  vowed,  "  that  she  verily  be- 
lieved, for  her  part,  that  he  was  sent  into  the  house  as  a  spy  upon 
their  conduct." 


58  GEORGE     BAUNWELL. 

This  latter  suspicion  aroused  the  jealous  resentment  of  the  but- 
ler, and  the  whole  corps  domestique  resolved  upon  a  war  of  indo- 
lence a  gainst  him,  which,  however,  the  engaging  suavity  of  his 
manners  soon  converted  into  the  homage  of  grateful  respect. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  George,  when  orders  arrived  from  the 
Pavilion  to  prepare  the  house  for  the  reception  of  its  mistress  dur- 
the  winter. 

Though,  to  the  rusticated  mind  of  George,  every  apartment 
seemed  an  assemblage  of  splendid  unnecessaries,  yet  every  apart- 
ment was  thrown  into  confusion  by  tho  addition  or  exchange  of 
sofas,  cabriolets,  tripods,  chandeliers,  and  chimney  ornaments,  as  if 
the  house  for  the  first  time  was  to  be  furnished. 


CHAPTER    XVTI. 

Time  was,  a  sober  Englishman  would  knock 
His  servants  up,  and  rise  by  five  o'clock  ; 
Instruct  his  family  in  ev'ry  rule, 
And  send  bis  wife  to  church,  his  sou  to  school ; 
Now  times  are  changed POPE. 

NEW  scenes  now  opened.  The  reign  of  dissipation  commenced 
for  the  season  by  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Emery  and  her  daughters. 
George  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Emery.  "  Lord,  child,"  said  Mrs. 
Emery,  "  you  can't  think  how  excessively  I've  been  longing  to 
see  you,  ever  since  I  knew  of  your  arrival.  Well,  how  do  you 
like  London?  '  Is  not  it  delightfully  charming1?  Don't  you  think 
yourself  transported  to  Paradise?  What  do  you  think  of  the  thea- 
tres ?  Which  do  you  like  best,  Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden  ? 
Have  you  seen  Parisot?  Have  you  heard  Banti?" 

George  was  never  so  confused  in  his  life,  as  at  the  abrupt  volu- 
bility of  this  lady.  He  was  thinking  how  to  reply  to  her  string  of 
questions,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  she  exclaimed — "  O,  pray  do  me 
the  favour  to  write  a  note  to  the  Countess  of  Codrington,  to  say 
we  are  come  to  town,  and  mean  to  be  at  the  opera  to-night ;  and 

do  me  the  favour  to  write  to  the  Duchess  of O,  no — now  I 

think  of  it,  it  will  be  quite  delightful  to  take  them  all  by  surprise — 
and  I'll  positively  frighten  them  all  out  of  their  senses.  Come, 
Emma — Come,  Charlotte,"  looking  at  her  watch,  "we  have  just 
time  enough  to  dxive  round  the  squares  before  we  dress  ;  and 
away  they  flew  leaving  George  in  a  state  of  perfect  astonishment. 

At  dinner  he  saw  them  again,  and  more  particularly  surveyed 
the  Miss  Emerys.  They  were  mere  fashionables ;  their  counte- 
nances rather  pretty  than  handsome,  without  any  traces  of  intelli- 
gence or  sensibility.  The  youngest  possessed  more  vivacity,  and 
the  eldest  more  sense  ;  the  former  loved  laughter,  but  the  delight 
of  the  latter  was  scandal. 

As  they  were  reputed  fortunes,  they  were  not  without  admirers, 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  59 

whom  they  both  kept  in  that  doubtful  state  of  vassalage,  so  pleas- 
ing to  the  vanity  of  the  giddy  part  of  the  fair  sex,  but  at  which  a 
woman  of  virtue  and  understanding  revolts. 

By  the  attention  of  Lord  Morley  to  Miss  Emma,  and  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Eastwood  to  Miss  Charlotte,  George  easily  discovered  the  fa- 
vourites of  the  day. 

"  The  hour  for  the  opera  arrived  ;  the  carriages  were  ordered ; 
each  of  the  favoured  lovers  handed  his  idol  to  his  own  chariot, 
whilst  Mr.  Emery's  was  reserved  for  Mrs.  Emery  and  her  new 
friend  George,  of  whom  she  affected  to  be  extravagantly  fond  ! 
and  kindly  undertook  to  lead  him  through  all  the  mazes  of  the 
high  world. 

When  they  entered  the  magnificent  structure  of  the  opera  house, 
which  was  extremely  crowded,  George  was  absolutely  overcome  by 
the  strength  of  the  new  impressions  which  so  sudden  a  blaze  of 
splendour  created. 

The  opera  was  over,  and  the  overtures  of  the  ballette  was  per- 
forming. Upon  a  mind  tasteful  by  nature,  and  uncommonly  sus- 
ceptible, charms  of  music  were  not  lost.  While  every  one  else  had 
seated  themselves  in  the  box,  and  were  busily  employed  in  nodding 
round  the  brilliant  circle,  exchanging  looks  of  smiling  affability, 
and  at  the  same  moment  whispering  mutual  calumnies,  George 
stood  absorbed  in  exquisite  sensations.  A  tittering  sort  of  laugh 
aroused  him,  and  he  found  he  had  been  the  laughing  stock  of  the 
party. 

"  In  the  name  of  wonder,"  cried  Lord  Morley,  "  what  have  you 
found  so  petrifying?" 

"  Why,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  "  you  have  used  an  attitude 
in  the  wrong  place.  Nobody  ever  listens  to  the  overtures  ;  and  as 
to  being  astonished,  you  must  remember  it's  the  vulgarest  thing  in 
the  world  to  be  surprised  at  any  thing  one  sees !" 

"Possibly,"  said  Mr.  Eastwood,  "  this  is  Mr.  Barnwell's  first 
appearance  in  this  character." 

George  assented. 

"  O,  monstrous  !"  screamed  Mrs.  Emery.  "  Thou  brute  ! — A 
month  in  London,  and  not  one  night  at  the  opera  !  How  can  you 
have  possibly  amused  yourself?"  said  Lord  Morley.  "Have 
tragedy  and  comedy  entirely  engrossed  you?" 

He  had  not  seen  either. 

"  Mercy  on  me,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Emery,  "  what  a  task  have  I 
undertaken  ! — Mon  petit  enfant,  come,  tell  your  mamma  what  you 
really  have  seen,  and  what  you  really  do  know." 

Such  was  the  trifling  that  prevented  George  from  paying  atten- 
tion to  the  music  or  dancers. 

For  what  purpose  do  so  many  persons  assemble  here  ?  thought 

he.     The  entertainments  of  the  orchestra  or  stage  might  certainly 

as  well  be  altogether  omitted,  as  so  slightly  attended  to.     All  that 

he  had  been  permitted  to  see  or  hear, -only  served  to  excite  his 

3* 


60  6EOR8E     BARNWELL. 

curiosity,,  and  determined  him  to  take  an  early  opportnnity  of  visit- 
ing the  theatre  alone. 

As  they  were  leaving  their  box — "  I  must  relinquish  going  to  the 
Duchess's  delightful  party  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  or  dismiss 
my  novitiate;  for  positively,  George,  you  would  disgrace  me. 
Besides,  nobody  knows  you.  I  should  have  imagined  Mr.  Emery 
might,  at  least,  have  introduced  you  to  a  few  fashionables.  But 
he  is  so  necessary  to  the  ministers.  Do  you  think  they'll  give  him 
a  coronet,  my  Lord?"  turning  to  Lord  Morley. 

"  I  know  they  can  refuse  him  nothing,"  said  Lord  Morley. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  after  a  pause,  "  I  shall  certainly 
dismiss  you,  George.  And,  merely  for  your  sake,  I'll  positively 
give  a  route  on  Thursday,  (though  its  abominable  early  in  the  sea- 
son,) ask  all  the  world,  and  introduce  you  myself  to  every  body. 
So,  go — go  your  ways." — George  parried  these  blows  very  well  ; 
for,  though  unlearnt  in  the  fashionable  jargon  of  the  beau  monde, 
he  was  wanting  neither  in  genteel  deportment,  or  even  an  elegant 
and  agreeable  manner  of  expressing  his  ideas,  which  were  superior, 
beyond  all  comparison,  to  the  united  efforts  of  his  party. 

As  he  was  making  his  bow  to  Mrs.  Emery,  at  the  chariot  door, 
three  gentlemen  walking  abreast,  pushed  the  soldiers  on  one  side, 
and  were  passing  on,  when  Mrs.  Emery's  carriage  attracted  their 
notice,  and  they  stopped  to  pay  their  respects  : — "  O  Middleton," 
said  the  lady,  "  are  you  here  ?" 

"  We've  just  looked  in,"  said  a  florid  faced  man,  with  an  amaz- 
ing large  cocked  hat,  and  an  insolent  air:  "  but,  who  the  devil's 
that  quiz?"  in  a  whisper. 

"  A  very  particular  friend  of  Mr.  Emery's,  just  escaped  from 
rural  fetters.  Have  a  little  compassion  on  him,  for  our  sakes. 
George,"  continued  she,  "  this  is  Captain  Middleton  ;  he  wishes 
the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance  !"  and  the  carriage  whirled  off. 

George  now  found  himself  in  a  new  society.  Captain  Middleton 
took  his  arm  in  as  familiar  a  style  as  if  they  were  old  acquaint- 
ances, and  began  a  sort  of  catechism,  and  soon  discovered  his  own 
most  libertine  principles,  and  proved  to  himself  the  unsullied  mind 
of  his  new  acquaintance. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  and  began  to  rain  ;  a  hackney  coach  was 
called,  and  orders  given  to  drive  to  St.  James's  street.  They 
alighted  at  a  coffee-house  ;  and  George,  having  acknowledged  that 
he  had  no  engagement,  felt  compelled  to  sit  down  with  them  to 
supper.  Wine  was  quaffed  in  goblets,  laughter  expelled  thought, 
and  was  kept  up  by  a  continued  series  of  obscene  merriment. 

Unaccustomed  to  such  scenes,  George  performed  his  part  but  in- 
differently. It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  ever  listened  to 
an  unbridled  ridicule  of  religion  and  morality.  Religion  was  abso- 
lutely scouted  ;  and  as  to  what  was,  or  was  not  morality,  it  was  so 
indefinable  to  the  comprehension  of  those  wits,  that,  according  to 
their  system,  a  man  of  liberal  ideas  had  no  other  guide  for  his  con- 
duct than  his  own  convenience. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  Cl 

As  the  wine  circulated  through  their  veins,  their  stories  gained 
a  richer  colouring,  and  their  principles  became  more  naked. 

lu  this  situation  was  placed  a  youth  of  seventeen,  whose  heart 
had  hitherto  ever  beat  in  unison  with  reason.  It  had  knowu  r.o 
irregular  desires  ;  had  never  felt  the  fire  of  lust,  or  cherished  any 
inclination  unsanctionol  by  his  head.  Yet  was  his  heart  not  stoL* ; 
it  was  open,  generous,  Blowing  with  good  will  to  all  arourid  him. 
Thence  sprung  that  general  wish,  so  fatal  in  its  effects,  to  accom- 
modate his  conduct  to  his  company — to  do  as  others  do.  To  refuse 
a  glass  is  frequently  to  refuse  a  toast ;  and  to  refuse  some  toasts 
would  so  impeach  a  man's  principles,  that  he  would  be  forever  after 
pointed  at  as  a  monster  of  virtue  ! 

George  was  too  good  natured  to  refuse  his  wine,  and  too  unac- 
customed to  its  effects  to  keep  pace  with  his  companions.  The 
consequences  were,  insensibility  for  the  night,  and  a  most  inveterate 
headache  in  the  morning,  with  reflections  more  painful  to  his  mind 
than  any  he  had  hitherto  experienced. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

As  all  tbo  persons  who  compose  this  lawful  assembly  are  masked,  we  dare  not  attack 
any  of  them  in  our  way,  lest  we  should  send  a  woman  of  quality  to  Bridciccll.  or  a  peer 
of  Great  Britain  to  the  Counter. — SPECTATOR. 

EVERY  succeeding  day  now  brought  with  it  some  novelty.  The 
route  at  Mrs.  Emery's  was  as  splendid  as  any  in  London,  and  as 
ciwwded  as  her  ambition  could  desire. 

At  this  route  George  was  introduced  to  a  numerous  host  of  per- 
sonages, male  and  female ;  and  their  various  titles,  names,  and 
descriptions,  danced  in  his  brain  the  whole  night :  yet,  amongst 
them  all,  there  was  but  one  for  whose  further  acquaintance  he  leit 
ibe  least  inclination. 

A  very  genteel  young  man,  in  mourning,  who,  with  his  two 
sisters,  were  introduced  under  the  names  of  Mr.  and  the  Miss  Lamb- 
•ons,  had  left  a  very  favourable  impression  upon  his  mind. 

His  manners  would  have  passed,  with  many,  as  proudly  forbid- 
ling  ;  but  George,  with  more  discernment,  saw  in  them  the  effects 
)f  a  dignified  reserve. 

His  conversation  was  elegant,  and  rational.  He  appeared  to 
possess  a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  to  be  familiar 
with  the  etiquette  of  the  higher  circles. 

The  Miss  Lambtons  were  pleasing  and  intelligent  young  women. 

Having  passed  an  hour  in  delightful  converse  with  Mr.  Lambton, 
George  felt  extremely  concerned  at  his  departure ;  and  the  raor" 
so,  as  not  the  most  distant  hint  of  a  second  meeting  fell  from  his  lip.;. 

Upon  inquiring,  he  learned  from  Mrs.  Emery,  that  this  gcvt Io- 
nian was  the  son  of  a  deceased  Welsh  squire,  who  had  left  his  chil- 


62  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

dren  the  fame  of  a  liberal  hospitality,  in  return  for  having  frittered 
away,  almost  to  nothing,  his  estate. 

Mr.  Lambton  was  studying  the  law  ;  and  his  sisters,  who  had 
just  arrived  from  Wales,  at  present  resided  with  him  in  town,  and 
were  entirely  dependent  upon  his  generosity. 

George  sighed  to  think  that  the  only  individual  he  had  met  with 
in  London,  whose  friendship  he  should  wish  to  cultivate,  he  might 
in  all  probability  never  behold  again. 

He  was  agreeably  disappointed.  A  few  days  after  the  route, 
there  was  a  masquerade  at  the  opera  house.  Mrs.  Emery  had  en- 
gaged George  to  accompany  her,  and  a  party  was  accordingly 
formed. 

They  had  scarcely  entered  the  room,  when  a  black  domino,  with 
two  females  under  his  care,  advanced.  Mrs.  Emery,  with  her  usual 
volubility,  was  trying  the  patience  of  George  just  as  this  party 
passed. 

"  I  have  heard  that  voice  before,"  said  the  black  domino  to  his 
companions. 

George  instantly  recollected  Mr.  Lambton's  voice,  which  was 
confirmed  by  the  reply  of  his  sisters.  Noticing  carefully  his  dress, 
he  determined,  if  fate  relieved  him  of  his  patroness,  to  make  himself 
known. 

Lord  Morley  and  Miss  Emery  came  running  out  of  breath,  to  ac- 
quaint them  that  there  was  a  most  singular  character  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Eastwood  and  Miss  Charlotte  Emery  arrived  with  a  confir- 
mation of  the  same  intelligence.  At  the  same  instant  Captain  Mid- 
dleton  appeared,  and  Mrs.  Emery  taking  hold  of  his  arm,  relin- 
quishing George's,  he  made  his  escape,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  Mr. 
Lambton.  In  a  few  minutes  he  discovered  him ;  and  walking  a 
small  distance  behind  him,  listened  to  his  voice  again,  that  he  might 
be  confirmed  in  his  opinion. 

"  Well,  then,  my  girls,"  said  Lambton,  for  'twas  he,  "  masquer- 
ades will  not  be  among  the  number  of  those  indulgences  you  may 
sigh  to  think  a  parent's  indiscretions  have  deprived  you  of.  What 
but  inanity  of  mind  can  find  pleasure  in  a  scene  like  this  ?  Are  you 
not  already  tired  with  it?" 

George  was  now  convinced ;  and,  walking  up  to  him,  respect- 
fully said — "  Am  I  mistaken? — or  have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing 
Mr.  Lambton?" 

"  My  name  is  Lambton,  sir ;  but  I  have  to  learn  that  of  the  per- 
son who  honours  me  with  his  notice." 

"Barnwell,"  replied  George,  unmasking. 

Lambton  bowed,  and  presented  his  sisters. 

"  I  must  absolutely  offer  a  sacrifice  to  chance  for  this  unexpected 
good  fortune,"  said  Barnwell.  "  I  think  it  so  long  since  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  your  conversation,  that  I  began  to  despair  of  its  renewal." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  reply  sincerely,  or  fashionably,  to  so 
handsome  a  compliment?"  said  Lambton. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  63 

"That  will  depend,  I  apprehend,  upon  your  own  opinion,  of 
which  I  am  most  likely  to  be  pleased  with ;  though,  if  my  own  as- 
sertion will  pass  for  any  thing,  I  prefer  sincerity,  and  yet  desire  to 
receive  no  greater  than  I  bestow." 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  residing  with  the  most  fashion- 
able commoners,  in  the  metropolis,  with  the  most  easy  access  to 
every  amusement  it  affords,  you  can  find  leisure  and  inclination  for 
so  dull  an  employment  as  conversation?" 

"I  am  happy  to  find  you  do  not  judge  of  me  personally,  but  rela- 
tively." 

A  pause  ensued. 

"  I  am  surprised  to  see  so  few  characters,"  said  George. 

"  I  am  rather  surprised  at  the  contrast  of  ihe  real  and  assumed 
character  of  the  metamorphoses  we  have.  What,  for  instance, 
should  you  suppose  was  the  real  character  of  that  prim  Quaker  ! — 
The  dress  of  purity  conceals  one  of  the  most  celebrated  votaries  of 
impure  pleasure  in  this  city.  With  the  imbecility  of  accelerated 
old  age  is  combined  the  folly  and  dissipation  of  youth. 

"  He  has  the  disposal  of  immense  wealth,  which  he  lavishes 
upon  the  lowest  objects  of  pollution ;  yet,  to  discharge  a  just  debt 
is  painful  to  him. 

"  He  disgraces  the  patrician  order,  by  having  been  born  to  a 
dukedom  ;  nay,  he  lessens  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  by  show- 
ing that  the  spirit  of  a  satyr  may  animate  the  resemblance  of  a 
man." 

"  Miserable  old  man  !"  cried  George. 

"  And  yet,  observe  how  his  company  is  sought  after.  His 
riches  procure  him  the  attention  of  a  train  of  parasites,  whose 
praise  is  infamy,  but  which  he,  poor  man,  gratefully  receives,  as  the 
only  substitute  for  those  pleasing  sensations,  which  play  about  the 
heart  where  virtue  is  respected. 

"  That  fine  form  in  the  vest  of  a  nun,  who  seems  so  desirous  of 
attracting  the  Quaker's  attention,  is  one  of  the  wildest  daughters  of 
fashionable  levity. 

"  Her  parents  are  respectable  and  opulent  citizens  ;  but  Matilda 
unfortunately  has  an  aunt,  who  is  a  widow  of  quality,  with  whom 
she  resides  at  a  distance  from  parental  observation.  If  she  has 
not  yet  absolutely  bartered  virtue  for  pleasure,  she  cannot  justly  be 
surprised  that  the  world  has  already  attached  that  infamy  to  her 
character  which  she  so  sedulously  courts. 

"  You  will  observe  that,  if  she  fails  in  obtaining  the  notice  of  the 
Cyprian  Quaker,  which  would  be  the  climax  of  notoriety,  that  she 
will  attack  at  least  half  the  young  men  in  the  room,  be  familiar 
with  each,  and  tell  them  all  that  she  perfectly  despises  the  last  one 
she  flirted  with." 

"  How  much  to  be  pitied  !5'  said  George. 

"How  much  more  to  be  blamed!"  replied  Lambton :  "for, 
though  we  make  every  allowance  for  an  improper  education,  what 
can  palliate  such  a  contemptible  thirst  for  admiration.  Her  errors 


64  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

are  not  the  offspring  of  nature,  but  a  mean  and  disgusting  self-van- 
ity, which  impeaches  her  heart  as  well  as  her  understanding.  I 
can  admit  the  volatility  of  youthful  blood  as  an  excuse  for  vivacity , 
but  where  that  is  natural,  it  never  permits  a  disguise. 

"  Matilda  is  a  mistress  of  cunning,  and,  to  obtain  notoriety, 
would  sacrifice  the  feelings  of  half  mankind. 

"  It  would  be  a  task  for  the  night  to  enumerate  the  uneasiness 
she  has  occasioned  in  various  families,  the  discord  she  has  foment- 
ed between  friends  and  lovers.  But  see,  she  has  relinquished  the 
Quaker  in  despair,  and  is  crossing  herself  in  the  attitude  of  suppli- 
cation before  a  monk." 

"  And  does  your  information  extend  to  a  knowledge  of  his  reality?" 

"  He  is  the  son  of  a  courtier  ;  a  young  man  whose  acquaintance 
is  coveted  by  such  as  prefer  a  warm  and  luxurious  description  of 
obscene  incidents  to  rational  conversation.  He  has  travelled,  and 
will  recount  to  you  the  intrigues  of  convents  in  such  glowing  lan- 
guage, as  delights  the  depraved  taste  of  such  of  his  company  as 
would  be  fatigued  to  death  with  any  thing  intellectual.  I  believe, 
in  general,  his  stories  are  credited ;  but  for  my  own  part  I  cannot 
help  a  little  scepticism,  that  makes  me  revolt  at  narrations  so  full 
of  the  marvellous.  In  fact,  I  have  heard  well  informed  people  say, 
that,  in  the  company  of  men  of  sense,  he  will  himself  laugh  at  the 
credulity  and  false  taste  of  his  dupes." 

"  Do  you  observe  a  very  well  sustained  resemblance  of  the  tragic 
muse?"  said  George. 

"It  is  an  exception  to  my  former  remark,"  replied  Lambton  ; 
— "  and  is  supported  by  an  amiable  woman,  as  melancholy  at  all 
seasons  as  she  now  appears.  Her  fate  excites  the  sympathy  of  all 
who  are  susceptible  of  pity.  With  an  admirable  mind,  and  beau- 
teous form,  Fortune  had  also  bestowed  upon  her  riches  and  inde- 
pendence. 

"  Her  ambition  was  a  title.  The  earl  of wanted  mate- 
rials to  repair  an  impoverished  estate,  and  possessed  art  sufficient 

to  entangle  her  judgment.  She  became  the  Countess  of ,  and, 

too  late,  discovered  that,  for  the  inanity  of  a  title,  she  had  ex- 
changed independence  and  all  prospect  of  happiness  ;  she  discover- 
ed that  she  had  married  a  libertine,  and  a  gamester. 

"  Her  friends  interposed ;  and  have  saved  just  so  much  from 
the  wreck  of  her  fortune  as  maintains  her  in  economical  gentility. 

"  She  is  separated  from  her  husband  ;  and,  with  the  title  of  a 
countess,  is  compelled  to  live  in  lodgings,  and  seldom  appears  in 
public. 

"  The  frivolous  part  of  her  former  acquaintance  shun  her  with 
silly  scorn  ;  and  the  more  sensible  and  sincere  few,  who  still  visit 
her,  can  afford  her  little  else  than  their  pity  ;  the  consolations  of 
which,  a  dignified  mind  like  hers  would  much  rather  dispense  with. 

"  Without  a  husband,  without  progeny,  she  is  still  a  wife  ;  and 
her  present  misfortunes  are  in  no  small  degree  heightened  by  the 
painful  reflection,  that  they  are  attributed  to  her  own  fatal  error." 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  65 

"  How  much  1  am  obliged  by  your  communications,"  said 
George,  "  and  how  much  would  my  dislike  to  London,  and  its 
Harlequinades  be  softened,  could  I  have  recourse  to  the  intelli- 
gence of  such  a  mind.  Why  are  the  terms  friend  and  friendship 
become  so  ridiculously  unmeaning,"  continued  George,  "  that, 
whilst  one's  heart  is  prompted  to  confess  its  attachment,  the  force 
of  ridicule  repels  the  generous  instinct? 

"  But  for  this,  Mr.  Lambton,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  ask  a  pro- 
bation of  my  professions  ;  and  am  not  without  hope  that  I  should 
obtain  your  regard." 

"  It's  well  the  party  you  have  left  do  not  overhear  you,"  said 
Lambton.  "  Had  Captain  Middleton  heard  such  a  sentimental 
speech,  you  would  never  have  been  admitted  into  any  of  his  par- 
ties ;  and  the  rejection  would  have  marked  you  for  a  milk-sop  all 
the  rest  of  your  life." 

"  Would  to  God  he  had  been  here,  then,"  cried  George. 

"  Softly,  young  man,"  said  Lambton  ;  "  you  are  not  sufficiently 
aware  of  the  evil  you  so  bravely  spurn.  Could  you  be  content  to 
be  sneered  at  by  the  men,  and  laughed  at  by  the  women  of  your 
acquaintance^" 

"  Would  all  my  acquaintance,"  said  George,  archly,  "  act  so  ab- 
surdly?" 

"  I  perceive  your  allusion,"  said  Lambton,  smiling,  "  but  you  are 
too  young  for  a  philosopher What  comes  here?"  continued  he. 

A  mask  now  approached,  followed  by  a  crowd,  which  his  strange 
dress,  and  still  more  strange  behaviour,  attracted. — He  appeared  as 
a  hermit. 

"  Does  any  one  know  him? — Does  any  one  know  him!"  was 
buzzed  about  the  room. 

Captain  Middleton,  Mrs.  Emery  and  her  daughters,  with  Lord 
Morley  and  Mr.  Eastwood,  were  among  the  followers  of  the  hermit. 

"  The  man  should  certainly  be  confined,"  said  Captain  Middle- 
ton  :  "  he  must  absolutely  be  mad." 

"  Somebody  had  better  take  care  of  him,"  cried  Mrs.  Emery  ; 
"  he  may  commit  some  mischief." 

"  It  is  excessively  unpleasant  to  be  so  bored  with  his  sermons," 
said  Lord  Morley. 

"  Insects,  away  !"  cried  the  hermit,  in  a  voice  which  George 
immediately  recollected  to  be  Mental's.  "  Insects  away  ! — Ye 
flies  of  fashion  ! — Ye  fluttering  nothings  ! — Devoid  of  thought — 
Caprice  impels,  or  Folly  leads  your  steps.  Leave  me — leave  me 
to  my  own  reflections — Ay — Can  you  laugh  ! — Grin  on — 'tis  Lev- 
ity's meridian  now,  and  this  the  paradise  of  Folly  !  Oh,  how  de- 
lightful to  flutter  in  the  blaze  of  such  a  sun,  sipping  the  dews  of 
pleasure,  and  breathing  the  soft  gales  of  amorous  respiration  ! — 
'Twere  well  were  this  your  everlasting  region.  But,  Oh  !  ye  silly 
ones — how  will  ye  bear  the  nipping  frost,  when  chill  adversity  ob- 
scures a  distant  sun  ! — how  will  you  palate  the  bitter  cup  of  mis- 
ery ! — How  will  you  meet  the  herald  of  your  dissolutions,  who 


66  QEORGBBARNWEI.Iii 

have  never  fostered  the  unfortunate,  or  sympathized  with  the  mis- 
erable, or  the  dying  !" 

"  Lord  !"  cried  Charlotte  Emery,  "  let's  leave  him  : — one  had 
as  well  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  man  that  preaches  to  the  Jews." 

"  True,  my  sweet  girl,"  said  the  Rev.  Mr.  Eastwood.  "  Mo- 
rality is  certainly  very  necessary  in  the  world  ,  but  there  are  times 
for  all  things  :  besides,  one  may  contrive  means  to  acquaint  people 
with  their  duty  without  a  breach  of  good  manners." 

George  had  stood  silently  observing  what  passed  ;  but,  when 
Mental  and  the  crowd  had  passed  him,  he  could  not  help  exclaiming — 

"  Good  heavens  !  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  should  have  ex- 
pected to  meet  at  a  masquerade  !" 

"  Do  you  know  him,  then?"  said  Lambton. 

George  briefly  related  the  outlines  of  his  story,  which,  with  the 
remarks  of  Lambton  on  the  tale,  occupied  the  remainder  of  the 
time  till  they  separated  ;  when,  to  the  great  pleasure  of  George, 
Mr.  Lambton  gave  him  his  address,  and  requested  the  favour  of  an 
early  visit. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

I  must  have  liberty 

Withal,  as  large  a  charter  as  the  wind, 
To  blow  on  whom  I  please — for  so  fools  have, 
And  they  that  are  most  galled  with  my  folly, 
They  most  must  laugh.  SHAKSPERE. 

SEVERAL  weeks  passed  away  unmarked  by  any  event  of  conse- 
quence. 

Mental  never  appeared,  though,  since  the  night  of  the  masquer- 
ade, George  constantly  expected  him. 

New  scenes  of  business  or  amusement  succeeded  each  other  so 
rapidly,  as  to  leave  little  room  for  reflection,  or  little  leisure  for  the 
conversations  of  Lambton,  which  were  the  source  of  considerable 
improvement,  and  real  delight. 

Imperceptibly  his  mind  became  moulded  into  a  compliance  with 
fashionable  life,  and  his  manners  assimilated  to  its  modes ;  yet  still 
the  native  purity  of  his  principles  remained  unshaken  :  honour  still 
glowed  in  his  breast,  and  sincerity  dwelt  on  his  tongue. 

He  had  now  passed  his  seventeenth  year,  though  the  expression 
of  his  features,  and  his  manly  person,  made  him  appear  considera- 
bly older. 

About  this  time  Mr.  Freeman  wrote  Mr.  Emery  intelligence  of 
his  intention  to  comply  with  his  request,  and  permit  his  daughter 
to  visit  the  metropolis  ;  and  added  that  he  meant  himself  to  accom- 
pany her  to  town. 

The  agitation  of  Mr.  Emery  at  this  intelligence  surprised  George 
extremely.  Uneasiness  of  mind  became  evident  in  every  transac- 
tion. He  would  order  the  chariot  and  forget  his  orders  ;  he  would 


CEORGEBARNWELL.  67 

employ  George  to  copy  statements  of  accounts,  which  he  would 
alter  as  frequently  as  if  it  depended  upon  his  fancy  to  arrange  the 
figures. 

Mr.  Drudge,  the  acting  partner,  was  closeted  with  him  for  hours 
together.  Letters  after  letters  were  despatched  to  the  Treasury  ; 
and  anxiety  was  expressed  in  his  looks,  words,  and  actions. 

At  length  Mr.  Freeman  and  his  daughter  arrived.  The  latter 
was  a  beautiful  girl,  about  the  age  of  seventeen. 

George,  who  happened  to  be  with  Mr.  Emery  when  their  chaise 
stopped  at  his  door,  was  struck  with  his  exclamation,  as  he  went 
to  receive  them — "  He's  here,  by  G —  !  Then  there's  nothing  for 
it  but  deception  !" 

In  a  moment  the  chagrin  of  his  countenance  was  half  concealed 
by  a  hypocritical  smile  of  welcome. 

"  Well,"  cried  Mr.  Freeman,  as  he  stumped  through  the  hall, 
leaning  on  a  gold  headed  cane,  "  Well,  Master  Emery,  here  am  I, 
once  more,  in  London.  Upon  my  conscience,  but  you've  an  ele- 
gant house  here.  Ay,  and  here  are  my  old  acquaintances,  Emma 
and  Charlotte.  Why,  they  are  grown  out  of  mind  ;  and  so  fine 
too — why,  Maria,"  to  his  daughter,  "  our  country  clothes  will 
make  our  fashionable  friends  here  blush  for  us.  Where  is  my  ward, 
Georgiana  ?  and  where  is  young  Barnwell  ?" 

Congratulations  and  embraces  now  took  place,  and  about  six 
o'clock  the  servant  announced  dinner. 

"Dinner!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Freeman:  "by  my  credit,  but  I'm 
shocked  !  What,  have  you  not  dined  ?  Well,  well — I  suppose 
it's  the  fashion." 

By  design,  Mr.  Emery  had  no  party  that  day.  As  they  were  at 
dinner — "  And  pray,  how  go  things  now  in  London?  Have  sugars 
advanced  as  much  as  was  expected?" 

"  Sir, — Eh — sugars — "  cried  Emery,  and  looked  significantly 
at  George. 

George  answered  the  question. 

Mr.  Emery,  fearful  of  more  questions,  began  talking  himself. 

"  Have  you  heard  how  many  millions  Mr.  Pitt  wants?" 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Freeman,  "  nor  I  don't  care." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Emery;  "but  it  will  make  some 
material  difference  to  us,  that  I  happened  to  know  to  a  certainty. 
The  turn  of  the  market  hangs  on  that  point." 

"  What  market?"  said  Mr.  Freeman. 

Mr.  Emery  appeared  confused. 

"  I  mean,"  said  he,  "  the  funds.  You  are  aware,  that  during 
the  war,  part  of  our  capital  would  lie  dead,  were  it  not  for  the  op- 
portunities offered  by  loans." 

"  Why,  truly,"  said  Mr.  Freeman,  "  loans,  or  those  things,  I 
don't  know  much  about.  Merchandise,  in  my  younger  days,  con- 
sisted in  imports  and  exports  ;  a  good  cargo  outwards,  or  home- 
wards ;  and  I  can't  say  I  much  like  the  new  sort  of  merchandise, 
where  the  freight  is  invisible,  and  the  bills  of  exchange  are  abund- 


68  GEORGE     BARKWELL. 

ant.  Not  but,  in  my  time,  if  the  state  stood  in  need  of  assistance 
the  merchants  of  London  could  advance  their  cash  at  fair  interest ; 
but  they  never  made  the  distress  of  their  country  the  means  of  their 
profit,  or  degraded  the  character  of  an  English  merchant  into  that 
of  a  money  lender  !" 

"  But  you  must  consider  the  difference  of  the  times,  sir,"  said 
Emery.  "  Things  are  much  altered  since  then." 

"  I'm  afraid  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Freeman,  emphatically. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Freeman,  Mr.  Emery,  and  George,  were  left  to 
themselves.  Mr.  Emery  drank  glass  after  glass  till  he  seemed  to 
have  conquered  his  feelings,  and  George  thought  proper  to  leave 
them  together. 

They  soon,  however,  joined  the  ladies  in  the  drawing  room,  and 
were  scarcely  seated,  when  Lord  Morley  was  announced. 

"Lord  who?"  cried  Mr.  Freeman.  "Why,  you  did  not  say 
you  expected  any  lords." 

"  O  dear  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  "  they  tire  us  to  death  with 
their  freedom." 

"  Either,  then,  the  dignity  of  the  nobleman  is  diminished,  or  the 
consequence  of  Master  Emery  considerably  advanced,"  said  Mr. 
Freeman. 

A  hectic  cough  introduced  his  lordship.  "  My  dear  creatures," 
cried  he,  entering,  "  am  I  the  first  to  give  you  joy — have  you  heard 
it — Eh But  T  beg  pardon,  I  did  not  observe — " 

Mr.  Freeman  was  introduced. 

"  What's  the  news,  you  tiresome  creature?"  said  Miss  Emery. 
"  How  can  you  keep  us  in  such  suspense !" 

"  Any  thing  of  importance,  my  Lord?"  said  Mr.  Freeman. 

"  News  of  the  first  consequence,  sir,"  replied  the  Lord. 

"  From  the  continent,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Mr.  Freeman. 

"  You  are  right,  sir — from  the  continent.  We  totally  despaired 
of  such  good  fortune  ;  for,  though  we  would  absolutely  not  have 
scrupled  sending  over  a  whole  corps  in  exchange  for  him,  the  Great 
Nation  would  have  still  persisted  in  detaining  him,  had  he  not  es- 
caped sans  ceremonie." 

"  He  is  safe  arrived,  then?"  said  Mr.  Freeman. 

"  I  have  seen  him,"  said  his  lordship. 

"  Bravo  ! — Bravo  !"  cried  Mr.  Freeman,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"  He  is  a  brave  and  gallant  fellow,  and  I  am  glad  of  it  with  all  my 
heart;  and  hope  it  won't  be  long  before  they  send  him  upon  an- 
other blazing  expedition  against  their  navy." 

Lord  Morley  stared — "Blazing  expedition! — Navy! — You'll 
pardon  me,  sir  ;  but,  'pon  my  honour,  I  don't  comprehend  the 
allusion." 

"Why,  I'm  alluding  vto  Sir  Sidney  Smith,  who  you  say  has 
escaped  from  the  French." 

"  Sir  Sidney! — the  devil  !"  exclaimed  his  lordship.  "  No,  sir, 
I  do  not  concern  myself  about  any  such  gunpowder  gentry.  I — sir 


GEOR6BBARNWELL.  69 

— am  alluding  to  that  dear,  delightful  creature — Monsieur  Capero- 
nis — the  first  dancer  in  Europe." 

"  Psha!"  said  Mr.  Freeman  ;  "is  that  your  important  intelli- 
gence?" 

"  Delightful! — charming  ! — charming  !"  cried  Mrs.  and  the  Miss 
Emerys. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Eastwood  now  entered  the  room  ;  his  pretty 
features  screwed  into  a  simper — twirling  an  eye-glass  in  his  hand, 
which  was  suspended  gracefully  round  his  neck  by  a  purple  riband  ; 
a  white  cambric  handkerchief  hung  half  out  of  his  pocket ;  his  left 
toe  just  touched  the  ground,  and  he  stood  the  complete  image  of 
the  most  disgusting  character  in  the  world — "  a  clerical  fop  !" 

"  Have  they  imposed  upon  me,  my  dear  Lord  Morley,  or  is  it 
really  true — The  Caperonis — is  he  really  arrived?" 

The  conversation  flowed  now  solely  in  this  channel,  and  Mr. 
Freeman,  evidently  disgusted,  strolled  out  of  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Emery  followed  him. 

The  ladies  engrossed  Maria  to  themselves ;  and  George  could 
only  now  and  then  make  a  remark.  When,  however,  he  had  that 
opportunity,  the  sense  of  feeling  of  his  observations  was  eagerly 
noticed  by  Maria,  who  failed  not  to  contrast  them,  to  their  advan- 
ta^t\  with  the  insipidity  and  impertinence  of  the  rest  of  the  party. 

The  appearance  of  Lambton  was  a  relief  to  Barnwell,  who  call- 
ed, by  appointment,  to  introduce  him  that  evening  to  Mr.  Heavi- 
side's  converzazioni. 

"  What  a  comfortable  escape,"  said  George  to  his  friend  ;  "  and 
yet  these  are  the  beings  so  emphatically  styled,  by  Shakspere, 
the  '  makers  of  manners  /' — Well  may  our  manners  be  vapid. 
Here,  however,"  continued  he,  as  they  entered  Mr.  Heaviside's 
theatre,  "  we  shall  meet  minds  of  a  different  mould." 

Mr.  Lambton  found  pleasure  in  answering  the  questions  of 
George  concerning  what  he  saw,  for  he  was  perfectly  well  read  in 
the  theory  of  anatomy,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  intimacy  with  sev- 
eral professional  men.  Among  a  group  that  were  assembled  round 
the  fire,  he  pointed  out  to  him  a  young  man  as  a  poet  of  uncom- 
mon genius. 

"  He  has  the  fire  of  Milton,"  said  he ;  "  but  wants  judgment. 
His  writings  resemble  a  wild,  uncultivated  spot  of  ground,  where 
the  most  beautiful  productions  of  nature  occasionally  surprise  and 
delight  the  eye,  but  wanting  the  uniformity  of  design  and  arrange- 
ment of  taste,  fail  in  making  any  lasting  impression  on  the  fancy. 
It  is  exactly  so  with  the  works  of  that  young  enthusiast,  who  has 
published  already  enough  to  raise  the  highest  ideas  of  what  he 
might  have  been,  and  at  the  same  time  to  show  the  world  that  he 
will  never  reach  that  eminence. 

"  1  perceive,"  continued  he,  "he  is  now  debating  most  vehe- 
mently. We  will  join  the  party,;  but  let  me  first  guard  you 
against  the  warmth  of  his  language  and  sentiments.  He  is  a 
democrat  from  feeling.  The  French  revolution  burst  upon  his 


70  GIORGEBARNWKLL. 

opening  mind  like  a  new  created  sun,  and  the  rays  of  the  new  phi- 
losophy have  so  dazzled  his  discernment,  that  his  mind,  enlightened 
only  on  one  side,  can  discover  neither  beauty  nor  truth  out  of  the 
new  system." 

They  joined  the  group,  which  consisted  of  several  celebrated 
characters George  all  ear,  listened  with  avidity  to  the  conver- 
sation and  felt  a  real  delight  when  it  was  proposed  to  adjourn  to  a 
tavern,  to  supper. 

During  supper  the  conversation  was  general,  and  not  very  inte- 
resting, but  when  the  waiters  withdrew,  and  the  glasses  were 
placed  on  the  table,  George's  heart  beat  high  with  expectation. 
When  he  saw  such  celebrated  characters  seated  with  himself, 
at  the  same  board,  he  almost  debated  with  himself  which  he  desired 
to  hear  most  drawn  out ;  and  justly  imagining,  that,  most  probably, 
he  should  never  behold  such  another  meeting,  he  hoped  they  would 
all  enter  into  the  conversation. 

How  unstable  are  human  hopes !  The  young  poet,  whose  ar- 
dent fancy  had  formed  some  hundred  lines,  which  he  presented  to  the 
managers  of  the  theatre,  as  a  tragedy,  now  appealed  to  the  com- 
pany for  their  opinion  of  his  production.  Then,  pulling  out  a  bun- 
dle from  his  pocket,  he  began  reading  his  tragedy,  nor  once  at- 
tempted to  desist,  till  the  exeunt  omnes  of  the  last  scene  of  the  last  act. 

The  production,  which  at  any  other  time  might  have  entertained 
him,  appeared  to  George  now  perfectly  disgusting  ;  as,  by  its  ob- 
trusion the  mouths  of  the  whole  company  were  closed,  till  the  sal- 
utation of"  Good  night"  broke  up  the  company. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

Ah  !  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor  houseless,  shiv'ring  female  lies  ; 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest.— GOLDSMITH. 

AFTER  a  week  spent  in  London,  during  which  time  he  had  in- 
spected the  accounts  which  his  partners  laid  before  him,  Mr.  Free- 
man returned  to  his  seat  in  Yorkshire,  leaving  his  daughter  Maria 
in  Portland  Place. 

The  remainder  of  the  winter  was  passed  by  the  fashionable  fam- 
ily of  the  Emerys  in  a  round  of  amusements,  of  which  the  repeti- 
tion would  be  tedious.  The  theatres,  the  opera,  concerts,  balls, 
routes  and  faro  banks  at  length,  however,  yielded  their  influence 
over  the  beau  monde  to  the  various  attractions  of  summer. 

Away  flew  the  Emerys  to  the  Pavilion  ;  which  was  a  most  beau- 
tiful Villa,  built  by  Mr.  Emery,  from  a  design  of  Wyat's,  on  the 
bank  of  the  Thames  near  Richmond. 

To  this  delightful  spot  George  frequently  rode  on  an  evening, 
and  returned  to  town  in  the  morning ;  or  sometimes  would  remain 


GEORGE      BA  UNWELL.  71 

there  two  or  three  days.  The  whole  family  delighted  in  his  com- 
pany ;  and  though  the  Pavilion  was  never  without  a  party  of  six 
or  seven  besides  themselves,  yet  the  additional  society  of  Mr. 
Barnwell  was  always  matter  of  pleasure.  But  to  none  was  his 
converse  so  sweet,  his  manners  so  pleasing,  as  to  the  gentle  Maria. 

Nor  was  her  well  cultivated  mind,  her  well  grounded  principles, 
her  grace,  her  elegance  of  manners,  and  winning  softness  of  dispo- 
sition, unnoticed  by  Barnwell.  A  mutual  esteem  was  the  result. 
It  may  be  properly  called  esteem,  for  it  was  the  homage  of  the 
judgment  and  the  heart,  unblended  with  passion  :  it  was  the  de- 
lightful dawning  of  love  ;  a  serene,  pleasing  sensation  of  the  mind, 
unruffled  by  desire. 

In  their  walks,  they  would  oftimes  hear  of  each  other's  benevo- 
lence from  the  neighbouring  cottagers. 

In  mixed  companies,  a  smile  of  approbation  from  one  rewarded 
the  expressions  or  sentiments  from  the  other.  In  the  library  their 
choice  of  authors  was  frequently  the  same ;  whilst  their  private 
conferences  still  more  fully  discovered  their  conformity  of  senti- 
ments and  taste. 

Dividing  his  time  between  the  Pavilion  and  Portland  Place,  al- 
ternately enjoying  the  society  of  his  friend  Lambton  and  the 
amiable  Maria,  with  just  enough  of  business  to  make  his  leisure 
more  agreeable,  George  passed  the  months  of  this  summer  more 
pleasantly  than  any  former  period  of  his  life. 

The  letters  he  received  from  his  mother  and  Eliza  every  week 
brought  him  the  happiest  accounts  of  their  health,  and  comfortable 
situation.  The  world  appeared  to  his  glad  view  a  pleasant  gar- 
den ;  and  blossoms  of  delight  decorated  his  tranquil  path. 

Such  was  Barnwell ;  when,  towards  the  close  of  the  day,  about 
the  middle  of  September,  a  person  muffled  up  in  a  long  black  cloak, 
inquired  for  him  in  Portland  Place  ;  and,  upon  being  shown  into  a 
parlour,  discovered  himself  to  be  Mental.  He  was  grown  paler, 
and  much  thinner,  than  when  George  saw  him  last. 

"  Are  you  alone  ?"  cried  he. 

"  Yes,"  replied  George. 

"  And  are  you  at  leisure  ? — Does  no  banquet  wait  for  you?" 

"  None,  I  assure  you,"  replied  Barnwell ;  "  Mr.  Emery  is  at 
Buxton,  and  the  rest  of  the  family  at  the  Pavilion." 

"  Is  the  door  fast? — Bolt  it — I  have  a  secret  to  impart." 

George  began  to  survey  him  more  closely.  His  manners  seem- 
ed even  more  wild,  and  his  words  more  like  madness,  than  when  he 
parted  with  him.  He  obeyed  him,  however,  and  repeated  his  as- 
surances that  they  were  alone. 

"When  I  last  saw  you,  I  gave  you  a  miniature,"  said  Mental. 
"  Have  you  it  about  you  ?" 

George  drew  it  from  his  bosom. 

"  Yet  do  not  show  it  me  ! — Confirmation  is  unnecessary.  Put 
it  up — put  it  up! — O,  horrible!"  and  he  shuddered  as  if  seized 
with  an  ague. 


72  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

Barnwell  was  affected — "  What  new  sorrow,  sir,"  said  he, 
"  afflicts  you  thus? — May  I  be  intrusted ?" 

•'  Sorrow  !"  cried  Mental  ;  "  give  it  not  so  soft  a  name  !  Fools, 
women,  children,  can  be  sorry.  If  it  rains,  if  the  dews  of  heaven 
wet  their  silks,  they  are  sorry.  If  a  dance  is  postponed,  or  a  play 
deferred,  or  a  dinner  spoiled,  folks  are  sorry.  What,  then,  but 
horror  is  it  that  a  man  must  feel,  who,  having  murdered  his  wife, 
drives  his  child  to  perdition  ! — My  Elinor! — my  daughter!" 

"  Have  you  heard  any  tidings  of  your  daughter,  sir,"  said  Barn- 
well. 

"  Look  at  that  miniature,"  said  Mental.  "  It  is  the  counterpart 
of  that  which  you  possess." 

Walking  three  or  four  times  up  and  down  the  room,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  a  dining  parlour,  and  drinking  a  tumbler  of  water 
which  stood  on  the  sideboard,  he  appeared,  after  a  while,  more 
composed,  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 

"  It  was  my  intention  when  you  came  to  reside  here,  of  which  I 
was  apprized,  to  have  visited  you,  but  a  strange  discovery  prevent- 
ed me.  Sauntering,  one  day,  through  the  streets  of  the  metropolis, 
my  eye  was  attracted  by  a  brilliant  show  of  jewelry  and  trinkets  in 
the  window  of  a  pawnbroker.  Among  a  crowd  of  other  articles,  in 
one  corner  of  the  window,  were  three  miniatures,  one  of  which 
(imagine  my  surprise)  struck  me  as  greatly  resembling  what  I  had 
once  seen.  Upon  a  closer  examination,  not  a  doubt  remained  of  its 
being  the  counterpart  of  that  which  I  presented  you  at  the  abbey. 
The  villain,  Linmore,  in  our  happy  days,  painted  the  two  like- 
nesses. One  was  my  poor  Elinor,  which  I  gave  you  :  the  other 
was  given  to  the  governess  of  my  daughter,  to  be  presented  to  her, 
and  I  know  was  presented  to  her,  on  her  twelfth  birthday. 

"  To  see  this  miniature,  then,  was  to  see  my  daughter,  and 
brought  to  my  mind  the  painful  recollection  of  her  uncertain  fate. 
I  purchased  it ;  and  then,  with  an  earnestness  that  surprised  the 
pawnbroker,  requested  him  to  relate  to  me  all  he  know  concerning 
it. 

Barren  was  his  intelligence,  amounting  merely  to  the  recollec- 
tion, that  it  was  pledged  there  about  two  years  ago,  by  a  woman 
who  lived  as  a  servant  to  some  ladies,  at  that  time  lodging  nearly 
opposite,  at  a  house  that  had  since  been  pulled  down. 

"'The  woman,'  he  continued,  'still  very  often  comes  here; 
and  you  may,  perhaps,  learn  something  further  from  her.' 

"  Day  after  day,  forgetful  of  every  thing  else,  I  waited  on  the 
pawnbroker,  and,  in  about  a  week,  was  informed  the  woman  had 
been  there,  and  had  left  her  direction.  I  sought  her  residence — a 
miserable  one  it  was — the  abode  of  infamy  and  lewdness  !  Oh, 
how  rny  heart  sickened  at  the  picture  of  misery  and  vice,  wietch- 
edness  and  debauchery ! — and  how  fearfully  I  gazed  at  each  coun- 
tenance, dreading  to  behold,  among  the  hirelings  of  prostitution, 
my  poor,  abandoned  child  ! 

"  The  woman  who  had  pledged  the  miniature  told  a  plain  tale 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  73 

frankly,  that  made  the  blood  freeze  in  my  veins  !  The  ladies  with 
whom  she  resided,  she  owned,  were  of  that  description  I  feared — 
that  the  miniature,  she  believed,  belonged  to  the  one  who  went  by 
the  name  of  Ellen,  who  had  been  well  brought  up,  and.  had  eloped 
very  young,  from  a  boarding  school,  with  an  Irish  officer. 

"  I  doubted  no  longer.  Ellen,  I  persuaded  myself,  was  an 
abridgment  of  her  own  name ;  and  T  determined  not  to  rest  till  I 
discovered  her  retreat,  if  living — her  grave,  if  dead. 

"  The  clue  I  gathered  was,  that,  soon  after  the  miniature  was 
parted  with,  these  unfortunate  women  quarrelled  and  separated. 
Ellen  went  with  a  young  nobleman  to  Bath,  and  the  other  unfor- 
tunate went  abroad. 

"  To  Bath,  the  next  day,  I  travelled  post  ;  and  by  inquiries, 
found  that  the  poor  wretch  resided  there  about  six  months,  and 
then  quitted  that  place  for  Bristol,  where  she  opened  a  little  shop 
with  the  wages  of  her  infamy,  the  nobleman  having  quitted  her. 
Here  she  resided  nearly  twelve  months,  when,  having  met  with 
impositions  and  losses,  she  became  involved  in  debt,  and  was  com- 
pelled once  more  to  seek  refuge  from  her  creditors  in  the  crowd  of 
this  metropolis,  and  returned  to  a  miserable  traffic  of  shame  !  Oh, 
what  a  year  of  misery  have  I  since  endured  ! 

"  Every  place  of  amusement,  every  haunt  of  pleasure,  every 
mart  of  shame,  I  have  visited.  I  have  strolled  whole  nights 
through  the  streets  of  London,  viewing  each  female  with  a  dread- 
ful curiosity.  But  all  was  in  vain  :  till  about  a  fortnight  since,  at  the 
corner  of  Exeter  Street,  in  the  Strand,  I  met  the  woman  to  whom 
I  first  applied.  She  recognized,  and  thus  accosted  me 

"  '  Ah  !  sir,'  cried  she,  '  poor  Ellen  !' — 

"  I  seized  her  by  the  arm — '  What  of  Ellen? — Where  is  she? — 
answer  me  ! — show  me  where  she  is  !' — exclaimed  I. 

"  '  Hav'n't  you  seen  her,  then,  sir? — Poor  thing,  she  wou'dn't 
know  you  now,  then — She's  quite  delirous  /' 

"  '  Take  me  to  her  this  moment ! '  said  I.  I  followed  her  silently 
through  several  lanes  and  alleys  at  the  back  of  the  Strand  ;  till  at 
length  she  stopped  at  a  dirty  old  house,  kept  by  a  woman  who  sold 
green  grocery.  Feeling  my  way  up  two  pair  of  dark  stairs,  I  en- 
tered a  miserable  apartment.  The  walls  had  once  been  white- 
washed, but  were  now  covered  with  smoke  and  dirt.  A  dull  light 
was  admitted  through  a  small  casement,  darkened  by  pieces  of  old 
rags  stuffed  in  several  places  where  the  glass  was  broken.  Not  a 
chair,  nor  table,  was  in  the  room  ;  no  grate  nor  stove  was  in  the 
fire-place  ;  but  a  few  bits  of  wood  were  burning  in  one  corner, 
over  which  an  old  woman,  covered  with  rags  and  filth,  was  warm- 
ing something  in  a  pipkin. 

"  On  the  floor — on  the  floor !  Mr.  Barnwell,"  repeated  Mental, 
"  was  a  sight  to  agonize  a  heart  of  stone  !  A  thin  mattress  only 
was  between  the  bare  boards  and  a  poor  emaciated  wretch,  breath- 
ing out  the  last  sigh  of  anguish  and  despair ! 

"  '  There's  poor  Ellen,  sir,'  said  the  woman  who  conducted  me. 


74  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

And  then,  addressing  herself  to  the  old  woman — '  Here,  mother 
Andrews,'  said  she,  '  is  a  good  gentleman,  come  to  see  poor  El- 
len !'  '  God  bless  him  for  it,'  said  the  old  woman  ;  '  but  I'm 
afeard  it's  all  over.  I've  been  warming  her  a  little  tea — it's  all 
I've  got  to  give  her.' 

"  All  this  passed  during  my  profound  silence,  for  I  was  amazed. 
I  knelt  by  the  poor  dying  object ;  took  her  lifeless  hand,  but  in 
vain  searched  for  the  resemblance  of  my  Elinor.  The  agonies  of 
death  had  altered  and  deformed  the  countenance  ;  and  in  a  few 
minutes,  with  a  groan,  she  expired  !  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  the 
lifeless  hand — the  first  I  had  long  shed — and  it  greatly  relieved  me. 

"  '  God  receive  her  poor  soul  !'  said  the  old  woman. 

"  This  aroused  me.  '  Ill-fated  child  !  of  an  ill-fated  mother  !' 
cried  I,  and  embraced  the  senseless  corpse.  '  Oh,  what  a  change 
from  the  blooming  cherub  of  innocence,  that  I  abandoned  !'  I  sunk 
in  agony  upon  the  body.  At  length  the  voice  of  the  old  woman 
again  aroused  me — '  Is  there  a  Deity  ! — is  there  a  Deity  !'  ex- 
claimed I  ;  '  and  is  this  his  world — and  are  we  his  creatures  ? — 0, 
no,  no,  or  these  things  would  not  be  !'  It  was  an  ejaculation  ex- 
torted by  the  keenest  anguish  that  ever  pierced  the  human  breast. 
The  poor  wretch  gazed  at  me  with  a  sort  of  horror 

"  '  Ah  !  sir,'  cried  she,  '  don't  talk  so  ! — There  is  a  God  who 
knows  what's  best  for  us  all  ;  and  if  we  suffer  in  this  world,  he 
can  reward  us  in  another ! — and  I  am  sure,  poor  soul,  she  went 
thro.ugh  enough  to  atone  for  her  folly.  Poor  creature ! — nobody 
knows,  but  them  that  sees,  what  they  go  through  ?' 

"  '.  And  who  art  thou,  that  hast  seen  so  much  ?'  said  I.  '  Come 
— sit  you  down  ; — (there  was  a  washing  tub  and  an  old  box,  which 
served  for  chair  and  table) — and,  if  you  can,  relate  me  the  story  of 
this  poor  wretch  ? ' 

"  '  I  only  know'd  her  lately.  In  their  best  days  they  keep  higher 
company.  I  have  lived  ten  years  in  this  room  ;  and,  though  Ellen 
is  the  first  that  died  here,  I  have  tended  many  a  one  in  sickness  on 
that  bed.  But  then,  if  they  get  worse,  they  mostly  got  into  some 
hospital,  or  went  to  their  parish.' 

"  '  And  were  there  no  hospital,  or  parish,  for  her?' 

"  '  Why,  you  shall  hear.  It's  about  two  months  ago,  since,  one 
very  rainy  night,  this  poor  creature  was  brought  here  by  one  that 
had  formerly  had  half  of  my  bed.  She  was  that  day  thrust  out  of 
doors  by  a  hard-hearted  creature,  who  thought  herself  an  angel, 
truly,  because  she  did  not  send  the  poor  soul  to  jail,  for  about  two- 
and-forty  shillings,  that  she  owed  her. 

"  '  She  was  as  thin  as  a  lath !  and  had  a  cough  ;  it  made  one's 
heart  ache  to  hear  it.  The  clothes  upon  her  back,  and  two  shil- 
lings and  a  pocket  piece,  were  all  she  had  in  the  world.  The  girl 
that  brought  her  was  a  tender-hearted  thing,  and  promised  that,  if 
I  would  let  her  have  half  of  my  bed,  she  would  see  me  paid  my 
groat  a  week  regularly  ;  and  for  a  while,  sure  enough  she  did,  and 
brought  her  poor  friend,  now  and  then,  a  raspberry  tart,  and  a  little 


GEORGE      BARN  WELL.  75 

wine.  But  all  of  a  sudden  she  left  it  off,  and  I  have  never  seen  her 
since.  God  kaows  but  she  may  now  be  in  want  herself.' 

"  '  This  is  society  ! '  cried  I,  shaking,  as  with  an  ague.  '  Anan  V 
said  the  old  woman,  not  understanding  me.  She  went  on. 

"  '  So,  then,  I  was  obliged  to  break  into  her  two  shillings  ;  one 
went  all  at  once  for  a  bottle  of  stuff  for  her  cough  ;  and  soon  the 
other  was  spent  also.  Then  the  poor  clothes  went ;  one  thing 
after  another.  And  at  last  she  grew  quite  delirous. 

"  '  I  had  saved  up  a  crown,  but  that  I  know'd  wou'dn't  last  long, 
and,  as  I  could  do  no  washing  for  the  other  girls  while  I  tended 
her,  there  was  nothing  coming  in  ;  and  so  I  was  obliged  to  apply 
for  an  order  for  her  to  be  moved  to  the  workhouse,  where  she  was 
to  have  gone  this  morning  ;  but  last  night  she  changed  so  for  the 
worse,  I  thought  it  cruel  to  move  her  ;  and  as  she  wanted  nothing 
but  a  little  moisture  in  her  mouth,  I  said  I'd  tend  her  till  she  was 
released,  and  then  they  might  send  for  a  coffin .' 

"  '  No — no' — cried  I — '  1  will  provide  what's  wanting  now.  Per- 
haps an  earlier  meeting  might  have  saved  her  life.' 

"  She  was  decently  interred.  The  good  Mrs.  Andrews  was  re- 
warded. Good,  I  call  her,  for  whatever  in  her  youth  she  may 
have  been,  she  now  possesses  a  heart  that  wills  all  good  imaginable 
to  her  fellow  creatures. 

"  Thus  far  I  had  acted  upon  the  presumption  of  her  being  my 
child.  There  was  little  doubt  upon  the  point,  indeed  ;  but  still  it 
was  not  certain  :  when  a  circumstance  took  place  that  confirmed 
me  in  doubting  rather  than  believing.  I  applied  to  the  woman, 
who  so  inhumanly  thrust  her  from  her  house,  for  information  ;  but 
she  could  afford  me  none.  There  was  a  trunk  of  hers,  she  said,  in 
her  possession,  which,  upon  paying  what  was  owing,  I  might  re- 
ceive. She  believed  it  was  full  of  letters. 

"  I  eagerly  consented  ;  and,  upon  opening  the  trunk,  found  it, 
as  she  said,  full  of  letters.  Among  them  was  a  bundle  written  in 
a  neat  female  hand.  I  untied  this  bundle,  and  found  the  letters 
signed  'Elinor.'  They  are  compositions  of  uncommon  merit,  as 
to  style  and  manner  ;  but  the  matter,  though  ingenious,  is  highly 
exceptionable. 

"  This  circumstance  staggered  me  extremely.  That  the  letters 
were  wrote  by  my  daughter,  is  beyond  a  doubt.  They  had  been 
sent  under  cover,  and  began  '  Dear  Friend  ;'  but  no  address  was 
upon  them. 

"  The  only  conjecture,  then,  that  can  reconcile  the  deceased's 
having  these  letters,  written  by  herself,  in  her  possession,  is,  that 
they  have  been  returned  from  the  person  to  whom  they  were  writ- 
ten." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  George  ;  "  but  surely  it  is  not  too  much 
to  hope,  that  the  deceased,  after  all,  was  the  friend  who  resided 
with  vour  daughter  ;  and  that  she  herself  may  yet  be  living." 

"  Not  for  the  wealth  of  worlds  would  I  change  the  certainty  of 
her  death  for  such  a  torturing  suspense.  No — no — no — I  will  cher- 

4 


76  GKORQBBARNWELL. 

ish  the  thought  of  having  laid  her  in  the  silent  grave,  though  it  he 
delusion. 

"  Come  with  me — Come  with  me — I'll  show  you  the  spot  where 
she  lies.  I'll  repeat  to  you  the  story  of  her  sufferings  :  for,  Oh, 
voung  man,  in  such  a  house  as  this,  these  lessons  are  not  common. 
The  riot,  the  mirth,  the  glitter  of  guilt  alone,  you  behold  here. 
Come — come  to  the  abodes  of  the  dying,  and  the  graves  of  the 
dead,  and  learn  its  certain  consequences  !"  They  walked  out  to- 
gether. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

Yet  know  the  time  arrives,  the  dangerous  time, 
When  all  these  virtues,  opening  now  so  fair, 

Transplanted  to  the  world's  tempestuous  clime, 

Must  learn  each  passion's  boist'rous  breath  to  bear. — MASOX. 

A  FEW  days  after  Mental's  visit,  and  while  the  Emerys  were  yet 
?.t  the  Pavilion,  Barnwell  xeceived  the  following  letter  : — 

"  SIH — It  is  with  extreme  reluctance  that  an  unhappy  stranger  obtrudes  herself  upon 
your  notice.  The  forms  of  society  do  not  so  strongly  rondemn  me  as  the  emotions  of 
my  own  proud  heart,  but  adversity  weakens,  even  where  it  does  not  conquer,  pride, 
and  I  have  known  adversity  ! — Have  known  do  I  say  ! — 

"Though  perfectly  unknown  to  his  son,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnwell  once  honoured  me 
V'th  his  friendship,  and  if  a  countenance  so  resembling  his  father's  may  be  trusted  as 
indicative  of  a  similar  generosity  of  heart,  that  son  will  not  spurn  the  suit  of  tlie  un- 
i'ort"nitR.  It  is,  indeed,*almost  too  much  to  solicit  the  favour  of  a  visit,  though  the 
tale  I  am  compelled  to  relate  I  should  be  unwilling  to  trust  on  paper.  I  will  venture, 
then,  to  beg  oue  hour  of  your  time,  whenever  it  can  be  best  spared  from  more  cheer- 
ful occupations,  to  listen  to  the  distresses  of 

"  Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant,        E.  MII/WOOD. 
"Berr.crs  street,  Wednesday. 

"  1*.  S.  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  ordering  my  servant  to  call  for  an  answer  in  the 
evening." 

Curiosity  and  compassion  were  awaken^  hv  this  letter  in  the 
h.oast  of  Barnwell.  Repeatedly,  and  distinctly,  he  read  its  con- 
tf-r.ts.  There  was  distress,  yet  delicacy — there  was  an  appeal  to 
lu-3  heart  through  the  most  fine- wrought  flattery. — Above  all,  there 
was  praise  to  the  memory  of  a  father,  whose  shade  he  adored.  In 
the  warmth  of  his  first  impressions,  he  was  going  immediately  to 
Berners  street ;  but  the  impropriety  of  such  a  step  soon  occurred. 
This  incident  occupied  his  entire  thoughts  ;  he  formed  a  variety  of 
conjectures,  planned  his  conduct  according  to  the  supposed  cases, 
and  as  speedily  renounced  his  imagination  as  absurd. 

That  the  purport  of  this  visit  was  to  afford  him  an  opportunity  of 
displaying  his  generosity  seemed  certain  ;  and  he  began  a  calcula- 
tion of  his  finances.  His  uncle  had  remitted  him  large  sums.  His 
expenses,  though  great,  were  well  managed.  He  was  a  strict 
economist;  and  therefore,  though  his  hand  had  been  liberal,  his 
purse,  was  not  empty. 

If,  therefore,  thought  he,  a  temporary  assistance  will  avail,  I 
shall  have  the  satisfaction  of  affording  it ;  and  if,  on  the  contrary^ 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  77 

a  more  deep  calamity,  than  my  ability  can  disperse,  claims  the  just 
notice  of  discriminating  benevolence,  there  is  my  uncle,  or  even  old 
Mental,  who,  I  am  sure  will  thank  me  for  the  information :  and 
surely  the  writer  of  this  letter  cannot  be  unworthy  of  their  favour. 
Such  were  the  reflections  of  inexperience,  and  such  the  feelings 
of  a  benevolent  and  uncorrupted  heart. 

He  wrote  an  answer,  appointing  the  next  morning,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  for  the  interview ;  and  felt  no  inconsiderable  anxiety  till  its 
arrival. 

At  the  appointed  hour  he  repaired  to  Berners  Street,  and  was 
ushered  into  a  very  neat  and  elegant  drawing  room.  IIWB  few  min- 
utes a  lady  entered,  in  deep  mourning,  with  a  work  basket  in  her 
hand.  She  seemed  almost  sinking  with  diffidence  ;  and  the  strug- 
gles of  her  wounded  pride  appeared  depicted  in  her  countenance. 
George  rose,  and  bowed  respectfully. 

"This  condescension,  sir,"  said  she,  hesitating; — "the  conde- 
scension of  this  visit  is,  at  the  same  time,  the  source  of  so  much 
satisfaction  and  pain  ! — that  I  must  request  your  pardon  : — but — I 

really — I! "     And  she  sunk  into  her  chair,  and  applied  her 

handkerchief  to  her  face. 

Barnwell  stood  mute  with  surprise.  Instead  of  the  female  of  his 
imagination,  worn  with  wo,  and  wasted  with  despair — a  form  and 
face  had  burst  upon  his  view,  the  most  beautiful  he  had  ever  seen. 
Her  figure  considerably  above  the  middle  size,  was  majestic,  dig- 
nified and  elegant :  her  countenance  admirably  corresponded  with 
her  person.  Dark  hair  flowing  in  luxuriant  ringlets  on  her  fore- 
head, and  hanging  loose  on  her  neck,  greatly  heightened  the  effect 
of  a  most  delicate  complexion,  still  further  assisted  by  well  formed 
eye-brows,  and  lips  of  coral  hue. 

Her  dress  was  simply  elegant,  and  displayed  the  beauteous 
symmetry  of  her  person  to  advantage.  After  a  pause  of  some  du- 
ration  

"  Pray  be  seated,  sir,"  said  she,  recovering  herself; — for  Barn- 
well,  unconscious  that  he  did  so,  had  stood  silently  gazing  on  the 
form  before  him — "  How  weak  are  our  strongest  resolves!"  con- 
tinued she.  "  I  had,  I  imagined,  prepared  myself  for  this  inter- 
view ;  and  thought  myself  strongly  armed  against  all  the  attacks 
of  pride  :  but  the  remembrance  of  what  they  have  been,  is  among 
the  last  things  with  which  the  unfortunate  are  compelled  to  part." 
George,  extremely  afflicted  at  her  distress,  attempted  once  or 
twice  to  speak  himself,  but  failed  in  the  attempt. 

The  lady  continued — "  Many  and  powerful  were  the  struggles  I 
have  encountered,  ere  I  resolved  upon  soliciting  this  interview; 
but  the  character  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  so  opposite  to  the  volatile  and 
unthinking  youths  of  fashion,  (to  whom  a  story  of  distress  is  the 
source  either  of  spleen  or  scorn,)  added  to  the  very  encouraging 
traits  of  benevolent  symyathy  so  strongly  portrayed  in  his  counte- 
nance, at  length  emboldened  me  to  take  a  step  I  have  since,  more 
than  once,  repented.  I  have  therefore,  sir,  to  entreat  your  pardon 


78  GEORGE      BARN  WELL. 

for  so  great  a  liberty  ;  and  hope  you  will  completely  erase  from 
your  memory  the  indiscreet  request  I  have  made." 

"  Madam — I — If  I  can — if  it  is  in  my  power — I  shall  be  happy, 
madam — I  hope — if  there  is  any  thing  that — " 

Such  were  the  incoherent  words  of  Barnwell,  in  whose  breast 
pity,  which  was  its  constant  guest,  now  mingled  its  influence  with 
a  new  and  strange  sensation  ; — so  strange,  so  new,  as  to  create  a 
wild  alarm  not  only  in  his  countenance,  but  in  his  words  and  man- 
ners. 

"  I  perceive  your  generous  intentions^  but  I  cannot — I  ought 
not — to  tajte  advantage  of  so  much  goodness ! — How  strongly  you 
resemble  your  worthy  father  !" 

"  You  knew  my  father?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  knew  him  once — They  were  happy  days  when  I 
knew  Mr.  Barnwell ! — I  little  dreamt  how  severe  a  destiny  was  to 
succeed  those  joyful  days.  But,  alas,  how  feeble  is  our  hold  on 
earthly  bliss— how  fleeting  our  joy — how  unstable  our  hopes  of 
happiness ! — Oh,  painful  to  contemplate  the  picture  of  what  I  have 
been — and  view  the  gloomy  scenes  before  me!  Wealth,  and 
friends,  and  hope,  were  then  all  mine.  Now  poverty,  and  ene- 
mies, and  fell  despair,  surround  me  ;  and  the  worst  that  Fate  can 
ordain  to  mortals  is  my  gloomy  expectation !" 

Barnwell  had  struggled  to  overcome  his  embarrassment ;  and 
collecting  himself  as  much  as  possible,  he  said — "  If  the  calamity 
which  has  wrought  so  unhappy  a  change,  may  be  communicated 
without  pain,  believe  me,  madam,  the  confidence  with  which  you 
honour  me  shall  be  respected,  by  one  who  has  ever  felt  for  the  un- 
happy, but  who  never  felt  so  deeply  as  at  the  present  moment." 

"Ah,  sir!"  said  Milwood — and  sighed — "The  soothing  voice 
of  friendship,"  continued  she,  "  has  been  so  long  unheard  ;  my  ear 
has  been  so  used  of  late  to  the  sounds  of  anger  and  defiance,  that 
the  tenderness  of  your  expressions  has  the  influence  of  music  on 
ray  mind,  But  when  you  are  acquainted  with  my  story,  I  much 
fear  that  your  language  will  be  altered  ;  and  that,  ceasing  to  pity 
my  misfortunes,  you  will  only  censure  my  misconduct." 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,"  said  Barnwell.  "  The  emotions  of  pity 
are  arbitrary  sensations,  for  the  justice  of  which  we  cannot  be  pre- 
sumed responsible  ;  but  the  voice  of  censure  ought  at  least  to  have 
the  sanction  of  experience,  and  the  motives  of  prevention.  To  add 
poignancy  of  reproof  to  the  stings  of  conviction  betrays  an  unfeel- 
ing heart  at  all  times ;  but  most  unpardonable,  indeed,  would  it  be 
to  pour  reproach  into  the  breast  that  seeks,  by  confidence,  the  balm 
of  consolation  ! ' ' 

"Cease,  sir!  I  beseech  you,  cease  to  speak  thus!  You  are 
not  aware  how  much  you  increase  the  wound  you  seek  to  heal !" 

Then  rising  from  her  chair,  and  walking  with  considerable  emo- 
tion about  the  room— ** 

"  I  have  borne  oppression  !"  continued  she  ;  "I  have  suffered, 
with  some  degree  of  dignity,  the  "  th?  stings  and  arrows  of  out- 


GEORGE     B  A  RNWELL.  79 

rageous  fortune ;  but  your  pity,  your  sympathy,  Mr.  Barnwell,  dis- 
arms me  of  my  purpose,  and  increases  the  weakness  I  had  almost 
subdued.  I  will  hasten  to  relate  to  you  my  errors,  that  your 
scorn  and  contempt  may  subdue  the  baneful  effects  of  your  too  cruel 
tenderness!" 

"  Mysterious!"  exclaimed  Barnwell,  in  a  low  tone  of  voice. 

"  Hear  me,  sir. — My  name  is  Milwood  :  my  family  is  one  of  the 
most  ancient  and  respectable  in  the  country  where  they  reside. 
My  patents  both  died  erjs  I  had  attained  an  age  to  be  sensible  of 
their  loss.  I  was  the  youngest  of  six  orphans.  My  eldest  brother, 
who  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates  of  his  father,  was  at  the  pe- 
riod of  his  decease,  a  student  at  Cambridge  university ;  another 
brother  was  an  ensign  in  the  militia  of  the  country ;  and  a  third 
served  as  a  midshipman  in  the  navy. 

"  I  had  two  sisters,  who,  with  myself,  were  taken  under  the 

guardianship  of  my  mother's  brother,  the  dean  of .  With  this 

gentleman  we  resided,  enjoyed  every  advantage  which  his  fortune 
or  abilities  could  bestow.  As  my  father  died  intestate,  and  the 
whole  of  his  property  was  in  landed  estates,  every  branch  of  the 
family  was  left  dependent  on  the  discretion  and  generosity  of  my 
elder  brother, 

"  Poor  Edward  !  Thy  memory  shall  not  be  insulted  by  me,  how- 
ever severely  the  consequences  of  thy  errors  fall  on  thy  unhappy 
sister.  Suffice  it,  then,  to  observe,  that  the  indiscretions  of  the 
youth  at  college  were  made  the  means  of  enriching  a  few  worth- 
less characters,  who  preyed  upon  the  openness  of  his  soul,  and 
consigned  to  poverty  and  dependence  those,  who  were  born  with 
far  better  expectations. 

"  The  remorse  he  felt,  that  a  fate  so  unworthy  of  his  house 
should  be  brought  upon  it  by  himself,  drove  the  ill-fated  Edward  to 
those  wretched  expedients,  which,  lulling  for  a  moment  the  pangs 
of  recollection,  increase  the  dread  of  thought,  and  hurry  those  who 
seek  them  to  a  grave  of  shame. 

"  So  'twas  with  my  poor  Edward  !  Peace  to  his  spirit !  My 
other  brothers  are  each  rising  to  wealth  and  eminence  in  their  pro- 
fessions. The  eldest  of  my  sisters  married  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  dean,  and  is  now  the  happy  mother  of  several  children.  My 
other  sister  died. 

"  Now,  sir,  I  am  to  speak  of  myself.  From  a  long  residence  in 
his  family,  from  his  parental  fondness,  I  had  imbibed  for  the  dean, 
my  uncle,  all  the  tender  feelings  of  a  daughter.  The  deanery  was 
as  my  native  home  ;  and  every  desire  that  the  young  heart  knows 
was  gratified  as  soon  as  known.  'Twas  here  I  once  was  honoured 
with  the  society  of  your  father.  He  was  an  excellent  man." 
[George  bowed.]  "  I  have  no  particular  event  to  detail,"  continued 
Milwood,  "  till,  about  two  years  ago,  when  a  distant  relation  of  the 
dean's,  who  had  been  some  time  upon  a  visit  at  the  deanery,  did 
me  the  honour  to  offer  me  proposals  of  marriage.  It  was  not  the 


80  GEORGS      BARNWELL. 

first  offer  I  had  received  ;  but  it  was  the  first  that  had  received  the 
pressing  recommendation  of  the  dean. 

"  I  answered,  however,  to  this  proposal,  aa  I  had  uniformly  done 
to  others  ;  and  candidly  intimated,  that  I  did  not  feel  that  affection, 
on  which  alone  I  built  my  hopes  of  happiness  in  the  married  stale ; 
and  without  which,  it  was  my  firm  determination  never  to  approach 
the  altar ! 

"  Why,  then,  did  he  still  pursue  me  ?  Why  did  he  commence 
a  persecution,  that  can  only  terminate  with  my  existence  !  Or  why 
— -O,  my  beloved  uncle !  why  did  the  cold  calculations  of  interest 
outweigh,  in  thy  breast,  the  pleadings  of  nature  ! 

"  I  must  check  myself. — The  wealth  and  honours  of  the  gentle- 
man who  was  my  suitor  were  among  his  inferior  recommendations. 
Elegant  in  his  person  and  manners  ;  happy  and  uniform  in  his  tem- 
per ;  mild  and  benevolent  in  his  disposition  ;  learned  without  pedan- 
try ;  witty  without  satire  ;  he  possessed  almost  every  qualification 
that  could  render  him  amiable  and  estimable.  Yet,  sir,  I  felt  for 
Lord  Naresby  nothing  like  love.  I  admired  his  accomplishments; 
I  respected  his  virtues  ;  but,  alas !  that  state  of  mind  is  far  short 
of  love.  You,  perhaps,  Mr.  Barnwell,  as  well  as  myself,  are,  I 
presume,  sensible  how  different  the  operations  of  our  hearts  are 
from  the  cool  exercises  of  our  understandings  !" 

The  abruptness  of  this  appeal,  and  the  penetrating  look  that  ac- 
companied it,  overwhelmed  with  confusion  the  youth  to  whom  it 
was  addressed.  Barnwell  blushed  deeply  :  he  stammered  ;  but  his 
words  were  incoherent  sounds. 

Of  love,  as  a  passion,  he  had  hitherto  known  nothing  but  the 
name.  There  was,  perhaps,  something  extremely  like  the  begin- 
nings of  love  now  struggling  for  existence  in  his  bosom ;  but  it 
was  a  new,  a  strange  sensation,  of  whose  origin  he  was  ignorant : 
of  whose  influence  he  had  no  conception. 

Milwood,  whose  penetration  and  art  equalled  her  beauties,  ob- 
served with  satisfaction,  with  delight,  the  disorder  of  which  she 
well  knew  herself  the  creator.  Dissembling,  however  the  joy  she 
felt  under  the  well  feigned  semblance  of  sorrow,  she  continued 
her  tale. 

"  My  uncle,"  said  she,  "  so  warmly  espoused  the  cause  of  Lord 
Naresby,  as  to  descend  to  threats  of  his  displeasure,  if  I  persisted 
in  refusing  his  proposals.  He  is  naturally  a  humane  man,  but,  in 
this  instance,  his  anger  overcame  him,  and  his  expressions  were 
harsh  and  cruel.  Still,  sir,  I  persisted  in  my  refusal. 

"  My  brothers  were  appealed  to.  My  married  sister,  and  her 
Lord,  were  also  made  my  judges  ;  and  with  one  voice  they  all 
condemned  me  to  the  cruel  alternative  of  marrying  a  man,  for  whom 
I  felt  no  preference  ;  or  of  forfeiting,  for  ever,  their  protection  and 
esteem  ! 

"  The  most  insulting  and  unfeeling  motives  were  attributed  to 
me  in  rejecting  so  splendid  and  honourable  a  proposal.  I  was 
shunned  by  the  whole  family.  My  walks  were  at  first  watched  ; 


GEORGE     BARNWKL1.  81 

at  last,  prohibited.  I  was  detained  a  prisoner  in  my  uncle's  castle, 
nor  ever  permitted  to  walk  beyond  the  boundaries  of  his  park. 

"  As  my  relations  increased  their  cruelty  towards  me,  Lord 
Naresby  redoubled  his  tenderness  and  attention  ;  obtaining  by  his 
interest  occasional  liberties,  and  some  few  marks  of  concern  from 
my  tyrants ;  but,  instead  of  gaining,  by  this  conduct,  any  advance 
in  my  esteem,  it  sunk  him  beneath  the  former  level  of  indifference, 
and  I  became  disgusted  with  a  man,  who  would  consent  to  receive 
such  mean  advantages. 

"  My  situation  grew  daily  more  and  more  intolerable.  A  faith- 
ful servant,  who  had  attended  me  for  many  years,  was  discharged, 
upon  the  pretended  suspicion  of  aiding  me  in  an  ideal  correspon- 
dence, which  they  said  I  carried  on  with  some  low  born  wretch, 
whom  I  had  the  meanness  to  prefer  to  the  man  of  their  choice. 

"  Alas  !  how  much  were  they  mistaken,  if,  indeed,  they  imagin- 
ed my  heart  at  that  lima  had  a  preference  among  mankind.  No, 
sii,  not  even  a  friend,  beyond  poor  Mary,  whom  they  discharged, 
ha  1  I  in  the  whole  world. 

"  When  she  was  gone,  they  placed  over  me  a  cruel,  insolent  old 
woman,  in  the  capacity  of  a  servant,  but  with  the  powers  of  a  mis- 
tress. 

"  Debarred  the  comforts  of  society,  of  reading,  drawing  or  any 
otaer  amusement,  my  mind,  unshaken  in  its  resolution,  became 
desperate  ;  and,  after  duly  weighing  all  the  obstacles  that  oppos^  1 
themselves  to  such  a  step,  I  determined  to  quit,  for  ever,  the  house 
that  had  hitherto  been  my  asylum. 

"  My  faithful  Mary  found  means  to  acquaint  me,  in  my  captivity, 
thit,  after  her  dismissal,  she  had  travelled,  at  her  own  expense, 
twenty-eight  miles  troui  the  castle  to  an  oM  lady  who  was  my 
father's  distant  relation,  but  an  inveterate  foe  to  my  uncle,  and  all 
my  mother's  relations. 

"  This  lady,  a  widow,  and  childless,  was  extremely  rich  :  and, 
though  she  had  never  seen  me,  such  was  the  success  of  Mary's 
tale  of  my  sufferings,  that  she  commissioned  her  to  tell  me,  she 
would  receive  me  as  her  daughter,  if  I  could  escape  from  the  castle. 

"I  did  escape  ;  and  Mary  and  I  were  received  by  my  relauou 
wkth  every  mark  of  kindness  and  respect. 

"I  have  particular  reasons  for  concealing,  for  the  present,  the 
name  of  this  lady  and  her  residence. 

"  My  uncle  soon  discovered  my  retreat,  and  wrote  a  letter  filled 
with  indignation  at  my  conduct,  and  a  formal  renunciation  ;  in 
which  he  was  joined  by  my  brothers  and  sisters. 

"  In  my  new  situation  I  was,  for  some  time,  as  happy  as  I  could 
wish ;  till  an  event — But  let  me  stop  in  time — If  I  proceed  with 
sincerity  to  relate  the  cause  of  my  unhappiness,  I  am  afraid — in- 
deed, Mr.  Barnwell — I  am  much  afraid,  the  loss  of  your  esteem 
would  be  the  painful  consequence ;  and  heaven  only  knows  how 
highly  I  esteem  your  good  opinion." 

"  Madam  !"  exclaimed  Barnwell. 


82  GEORGK     BARNWELL. 

"  Ay,  sir,  you  may  well  be  surprised  ! — my  face,  my  voice,  are 
new  to  you  ;  but  not  so  yours  to  me." 

"Indeed!"  said  Barnwell.  "Where,  pray,  have  you  then 
seen  it?" 

"  No  matter,  sir — since  I  now  see  it  for  the  last  time  !" 

"I  hope  not!"  said  Barnwell,  with  warmth.  "Stranger  as 
you  are  to  me,  madam,  1  feel  so  deeply  interested,  so  much  con- 
cerned, for  your  welfare,  that,  excepting  my  sister  and  my  mother, 
I  know  no  person  in  the  world  I  more  ardently  desire  to  serve. ' ' 

"  You  are  kind — you^re  very  kind  !"  said  Milwood. 

"  Can  I  serve  you,  madam  1" 

'  You,  afone,  can  serve  me  ;  but  you  will  not,  nay,  you  shall  not 
serve  me." 

"  You  speak  mysteriously,  and  look  wild.  Fear  not,  I  beseech 
you,  to  confide  to  me  your  sorrows  ! — my  bosom  shall  be  their  sa- 
cred repository." 

"Generous — generous  youth!"  said  Milwood;  and,  with  a 
seeming  unconsciousness,  threw  her  arm  upon  his  shoulder :  then, 
appearing  to  recollect  herself,  hastily  withdrew  it. 

Every  moment  now  increased  the  desire  of  George  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  her  distress.  He  gazed  earnestly  upon  her  face, 
endeavouring  to  read  her  sorrows  in  her  countenance.  He  ven- 
tured to  take  her  hand 

"  Dear  lady,  let  me  entreat  you  no  longer  to  delay  the  recital  of 
your  woes.  Of  whatever  nature  they  may  prove,  God  only  grant 
me  the  power  to  remove  them,  and  I  shall  be  the  happiest  of  all 
men." 

"  Your  generosity  of  mind,  your  tenderness  of  heart,  are  indeed 
the  objects  of  my  admiration  !  But,  alas,  my  calamity  is  of  so  pe- 
culiar a  nature,  that  the  most  generous  mind,  the  most  susceptible 
heart,  cannot  conceive  any  thing  that  can  alleviate  it.  Mine  is  a 
silent  sorrow,  that  broods  within  my  own  breast.  A  sigh  is  its 
only  expression — a  tear  is  its  only  relief: — no  tongue  has  pro- 
claimed it :  no  ear  has  received  its  complaint.  To  you  it  desires 
to  speak — to  you  alone  it  mil  ever  speak  ;  but — spare  me — pardon 
me — leave  me !" — And  she  wept. 

How  strange  is  her  behaviour,  thought  Barnwell : — how  wild, 
yet  how  mournful  her  countenance  !  After  a  pause,  Milwood  re- 
covered her  former  serenity,  and  continued 

"  I  am  to  blame,  sir,  thus  to  trifle  with  your  time.  I  will  en- 
deavour to  conclude  my  dull  narrative,  and  at  all  hazards  venture 
to  explain  the  motive  of  my  request  to  see  you. 

"  My  benefactress,  whose  bounty  was  my  only  resource,  contin- 
ued to  treat  me  with  the  affectionate  regard  of  a  parent ;  my  days 
rolled  on  in  comfort ;  and  my  heart  knew  no  distress,  till  that  event 
to  which  I  before  alluded.  O  God  !  how  shall  I  relate  it ! — but  it 
must  be  told. 

"  There  resided  near  our  dwelling  a  family  of  respectability,  but 
not  wealthy  ;  they  therefore  did  not  visit  our  house,  but  we  once  or 


GEORGE     BAR  SWELL.  83 

twice  met  in  the  neighbourhood.  Of  the  father — of  the  mother — 
of  the  daughter,  I  shall  say  nothing  ;  but  of  the  son  !— Pardon  me 
— Indeed,  I  cannot  proceed  !" 

"  Waive  this  reluctance/'  cried  Barnwell.  "  Confide  in  me,  as 
your  brother  :— • 'you  shall  find  me  as  tender  of  your  feelings,  as 
xcalous  in  your  service,  as  if  one  womb  had  borne  us." 

"  What  do  I  hear!"  cried  Milwood,  with  quickness.  "Is  it 
possible  !  Did  you  say  you  loved  me  as  a  brother  ! — Happy,  hap- 
py moment !"  she  took  his  hand,  and,  kissing  it  with  warmth,  ex- 
claimed— "  My  brother — my  brother  !" 

Barnwell  starting  from  his  chair,  and  snatching  away  his  hand, 
seemed  thrown  into  a  delirium  ;  whilst  Milwood,  appearing  to  re- 
collect herself,  hung  down  her  head,  and  blushed. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  madam,  tell  me,  who  and  what  you 
are?  Finish,  I  beseech  you,  this  mysterious  tale,  and  quickly, 
that  I  may,  if  possible,  serve  you  ;  or.  if  not,  may  instantly  escape 
a  presence  that  creates  emotions  of  pain  and  pleasure  too  powerful 
to  be  long  endured  !" 

"  I  entreat  your  forgiveness,"  cried  Milwood.  "  But  go,  sir — 
go  ere  you  know  the  misery  you  have  occasioned — the  storm  of 
ruin  that  you  have  raised — Go,  ignorant  of  my  wretchedness,  which 
to  know,  would  perhaps  excite  a  painful  pity  in  your  breast,  but  no 
relief  to  me  ! — Since  to  behold  me  is  so  painful " 

"  I  did  not  say  so  !"  cried  Barnwell,  "  or  if  I  did " 

"  I  see,"  said  Milwood,  "  we  are  both  too  much  agitated.  Your 
surprise,  and  perhaps  your  pity,  have  overpowered  you ;  whilst  I 
— I  am  the  prey  of  feelings  which  rack  my  bosom  with  torture  in- 
expressible!" 

'"Tis  suspense  alone  that  tortures  me,"  cried  Barnwell.  "  Your 
manner — your  mysterious  words — and  the  wildness  of  your  eyes, 
make  me  dread  a  something,  which  I  fear — yet  ask  to  know ! — You 
speak  of  a  youth  who  resided  near  you — You  talk  of  ruin,  of  misery 
of  which  I  am  the  author — You  request  to  see  me — You  desire  me 
to  leave  you,  as  ignorant  as  I  came ! — Whence  spring  such  incon- 
sistencies ? ' ' 

"  From  a  source  you  have  never  dreamt  of,"  said  Milwood,  with 
firmness  ; — "  from  love  !" 

Her  countenance  was  now  altered  from  the  picture  of  contending 
influence  to  a  portrait  of  determination !  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
firmly  on  Barnwell : — she  remained  silently  gazing  on  his  face  a 
considerable  time.  Barnwell  himself  was  dumb, 

"'Tis  over!"  at  length  cried  Milwood  :  "  I  have  conquered  ! — 
The  youth  to  whom  I  alluded  is — George  Barnwell ! — Yes  !  he  it 
is,  whom  Fate  has  ordained  my  destruction !  For  him  I  quit  my 
friends,  my  country — For  him  I  forfeit  affluence,  and  embrace  the 
horrors  of  poverty,  in  a  foreign  and  distant  clime  ! — Was  it,  then, 
too  much  to  ask  the  favour  of  one  hour's  interview,  merely  to  de- 
clare how  ardently  I  love,  and  how  largely  I  sacrifice  to  a  hopeless 
passion !  4« 


84  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"0  Nature ! — can  I  thank  thee  for  the  liberal  share  of  personal 
attractions  thy  hand  has  given  me,  since  they  have  but  served  to 
heap  upon  my  head  the  persecutions  of  a  train  that  I  cannot  help 
despising,  while  on  that  heart  alone,  which  I  esteem,  their  in- 
fluence is  too  weak  to  impress  even  a  cold  regard !" 

Barn  well  was  lost  in  wonder  !  after  various  attempts — "  I  do  not 
remember  ever  to  have  seen  you  before  !"  said  he. 

"  I  can  too  easily  believe  you,  sir." 

"  And  yet,  I  think,  if  ever  I  had  beheld  such  a  countenance  as 
yours,  surely,  madam,  I  could  not  have  forgotten  its  interesting 
traits!" 

"  Nay,  sir,"  cried  Milwood,  "  I  must  not  hear  you,  if  your  voice 
assumes  that  strain.  Do  not  imagine,  sir,  my  declaration  meant  to 
claim  your  pity  ?  No, — my  resolution  is  fixed  as  firmly  as  the  de- 
crees of  Fate.  One  moment  longer  let  me  detain  your  ear,  and, 
then,  farewell  for  ever  !  Briefly,  then  ;  the  same  persecutions, 
though  from  different  quarters,  rendered  the  abode  of  my  benefac- 
tress as  miserable  as  my  uncle's,  with  this  addition  of  wretched- 
ness— that,  in  the  latter,  my  heart  was  wholly  disengaged  ;  in  the 
former,  your  image,  your  worth,  barred  all  avenues  to  affection  for 
another. 

"The  object  so  dear  to  me  was  unknown  to  my  benefactress — to 
all  the  world — but  myself.  My  refusals  were  therefore  deemed 
obstinacy  ;  my  perseverance  became  rebellion  ;  and  I  was  at  length 
driven  to  the  dreadful  alternative  of  quitting  forever,  the  refuge  I 
had  obtained,  or  to  approach  the  solemn  altar,  and  vow  fidelity  with 
my  lips,  whilst  my  heart  would  be  adulterous  for  ever. 

"  Such  was  the  choice  held  out  for  my  adoption  :  and  could  I 
hesitate  ?  No,  not  for  a  moment !  I  waited  not  to  be  driven  from 
a  home  :  voluntarily  I  departed.  I  have  remained  some  time  in 
the  metropolis  ;  I  determined  to  see  you  ;  and  now  will  forever 
quit  the  country  that  gave  birth  to  my  existence  and  my  woes  ! — I 
will  seek  in  some  corner  of  a  distant  land  that  grave,  which  can 
alone  restore  peace  to  my  heart,  by  an  oblivion  of  you !" 

She  ceased.  Barnwell,  who  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and  was 
walking  about  the  room,  was  deeply  involved  in  thought,  combating 
one  suggestion  of  his  fancy  after  another,  till  his  head  became 
giddy. — He  threw  himself  on  a  sofa,  and  leaned  his  head  on  his 
arm.  Milwood,  with  the  tenderest  expressions  of  concern,  took  his 
hand,  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"  If  J  have  given  you  pain — if  I  have  relieved  my  own  breast  at 
the  expense  of  a  moment's  uneasiness  to  you — what  a  source  of 
eternal  regret !  Or,  if  I  have  rendered  myself  odious  by  a  declara- 
tion which  custom  condemns,  and  have  erected  a  monument  of 
scorn  in  that  remembrance  where  I  sought  to  deposit  the  pearl  of 
pity — O,  how  miserable  has  my  folly  made  me  !  Say  then,  only, 
that  you  do  not  despise  me — that  you  do  not  abhor  me — and  I  will 
never — never — trouble  your  quiet  more  !" 

"His   heart  must  be   differently   moulded   from   mine,"   said 


GEORGE      BARN  WELL.  85 

George,  "  that  can  despise,  or  abhor  you,  madam.  Your  confcs- 
sijn  has  so  much  influence  on  mine,  I  would  say  more  ;  but  at  pre- 
sent, let  me,  at  least,  entreat  you  not  to  quit  this  place,  till  I  have 
been  favoured  with  another  interview.  I  have  a  mother, — I 
have " 

"  Hear  me  on  my  knees,  Mr.  Barnwell,"  interrupted  Milwood  ; 
"  if  you  do  not  wish  to  drive  me  to  the  most  awful  crime  our  nature 
can  commit,  grant  me  my  request : — silence,  silence,  eternal  silence 
to  my  story.  •  There  is  not  a  calamity  in  life  I  should  so  hardly 
bear,  as  the  discovery  of  my  imprudence !  Then  swear  to  me — 
nay,  I  will  not  quit  this  posture  till  you  do  swear  to  me,  that  you 
will  not,  to  your  dearest  friend,  utter  a  breath,  that  may  betray 
me!" 

"  Good  God,  what  do  you  ask  !"  cried  Barnwell.  "  In  the  most 
trying  situation  of  my  life,  would  you  deprive  my  inexperience  of 
their  superior  counsel,  who  love  me  and  have  wisdom  to  direct 
me?" 

"  What  counsel  can  you  want? — what  is  there  to  determine?" 
cf.ied  Milwood.  "  By  to-morrow's  setting  sun,  I  shall  be  the  ocean's 
charge.  All  that  you  have  heard  will  then  be  only  as  a  vision, 
that  may  occasionally  ask  a  sigh ;  whilst  it  reminds  you,  that  there 
ia  one  in  the  universe,  on  whom  the  night  will  never  steal,  or  the 
d:iwn  break,  without  a  prayer  to  nature's  Author  for  your  heart's 
poace  !  Why,  then,  should  you  wish  to  make  her  errors  tales  of 
common  tattle,  or  give  her  conduct  to  the  examination  of  beings, 
who  have  not  her  feelings?  Will  you  deny  me  this  oath  then?" 

"  Rise !     I  beseech  you,  rise  !" 

"  Not  till  I  have  received  your  solemn  promise  !" 

George  hesitated  some  minutes  ;  during  which  time,  she  held  his 
hand  between  both  her  own,  and  leaned  her  warm  cheek  upon  it. 

"  Will  you,  then,  promise  me,"  said  Barnwell,  "  to  remain  here 
till  to-morrow?" 

"  By  no  means!" 

"  Will  you  permit  me  an  interview  this  evening  ?" 

"  For  what  purpose  Mr.  Barnwell?" 

"  Nay,  I  know  not !"  cried  Barnwell ;  "  but  my  heart  tells  me 
—  -that  1  am  to  blame.  I  would  prevent  the  necessity  of  your  Isav- 
ing  England." 

"Necessity!"  interrupted  Milwood  ;  "  'tis  my  choice!" 

"  But  if— if — "  cried  Barnwell ;  and  ins  breath  grew  short. 
"  Why — why  do  you  wish  to  restrain  me  from  consulting  my 
friends  ?  I  have  an  important,  very  important  point  to  decide ;  auJ 
I  dare  not  trust  my  feelings  with  the  decision." 

"I  understand  the  insult  now!"  cried  Milwood,  rising  scorn- 
fully. "  You  would  insinuate,  that,  if  your  relations  can  find  no 
just  objection  to  my  character  and  fortune,  you  might  condescend 
to  pity  me,  and  perhaps,  if,  and  supposing  so  and  so,  you  wonid 
then  offer  ma  a  love,  not  the  offspring  of  my  creation,  but  a  conde- 
scending acceptance  of  overtures,  you  may  imagine  I  have  made  to 


86  GEORGEBARNWELL. 

Sju !  I  had  conceived  your  heart  a  different  composition,  Mr. 
arnwell,  or  mine  never  would  have  been  known  to  you." 

"  You  judge  wrong,  madam,  I  assure  you !  Your  candour, 
your  noble-mindedness,  have  impressed  me  with  reverence,  not 
contempt ;  and  if  this  new  sensation  in  my  bosom  be  not — But 
spare  me  only  a  few  hours — Permit  me  to  see  you  in  the  evening 
— and  if,  then,  you  require  the  oath,  I  will  most  solemnly  take  it ; 
and  till  then,  not  a  whisper  shall  escape  my  lips  concerning  you." 

After  a  pause — "  I  cannot  see  the  necessity  for  this,  Mr.  Barn- 
well.  Why  should  we  meet  again  ?  Why  not  immediately  sepa- 
rate for  ever  !  But — "  pausing  again — "  since  your  request  is 
otherwise — be  it  so,  sir.  I  shall  expect  you  in  the  evening  ;  till 
then,  farewell !" 

"Adieu,  madam,"  cried  George,  and  with  trembling  feet  re- 
tired. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

The  other  dame  seem'd  e'en  of  fairer  hue  ; 

But  bold  her  mien ;  unguarded  rov'd  her  eye  ; 
And  her  flush'd  cheeks  confessed,  at  nearer  view, 

The  borrow'd  blushes  of  an  artful  dye. — SPENCE. 

IN  the  most  profound  reverie  Barnwell  passed  the  distance  be- 
tween Berners  Street  and  Mr.  Emery's.  The  crowd  that  sur- 
rounded him,  the  bustle  of  carriages,  were  insufficient  to  arouse 
him  from  a  sort  of  stupor  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

When  he  arrived  at  home,  he  rushed  through  the  hall,  and,  hur- 
rying to  his  own  room,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair — "  Milwood  ! 
— Milwood  !"  muttered  he  ;  "I  never  heard  the  name  ;  I  have  no 
recollection  of  the  face  before  to-day !  Oh,  what  an  important 
day  1  Those  looks  !  that  form  ! — never  will  my  memory  lose  the 
impressions!" 

He  sighed  deeply,  and  painfully.  "  Love  me  ! — Yes,  she  loves 
me !  She  owns  it :  nay,  her  behaviour  declares  it  more  power- 
fully than  her  words  !  What  a  wondrous  effect  has  she  wrought 
upon  me !  What  means  this  swelling  of  the  heart — this  quick- 
ness of  the  pulse — this  difficulty  of  respiration  1  Can  I  imbibe  a 
partiality  so  instantaneously?  Are  our  natures,  indeed,  so  suscep- 
tible 1— Surely,  it  cannot  be  !  'Tis  pity  for  Milwood — for  her  suf- 
ferings— that  pains  me  thus.  Then  let  me  soften  them  as  much  as 
possible — let  me  send  her  in  writing  the  oath  she  requires,  and 
spare  her  the  pain  of  another  interview !  and  yet — never  to  see  her 
again !  Why  do  I  feel  a  dread  at  that  thought  ?  Suppose  she 
should  be  already  gone  '\  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  Once  more — once 
more,  let  me  behold  a  form  so  lovely  !  What  brilliant  expression 
in  her  eyes  ! — what  sense ! — what  animation  in  her  countenance  ! 
How  happily  might  I  pass  my  life  with  such  a  woman  !  But  then 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  87 

her  situation — my  own  too !  Madness  alone  can  suggest  such  a 
thought.  She  is  proud — I  dare  not  offer  pecuniary  aid.  Where 
can  she  go?  What  part  of  the  globe  does  she  seek?  Unhappy 
Mihvood !  Would  I  had  never  seen  you !  Would  to  God  I  had 
never  seen  you !" 

Such  were  the  meditations  of  Barnwell — Milwood  absorbed  all 
his  thoughts,  while  her  beauteous  form  floated  in  air  before  his 
imagination  !  Never,  till  this  day,  had  his  imagination  been  heated 
by  the  charms  of  woman ! 

In  Maria  Freeman  he  beheld  an  amiable  companion,  whose 
modesty  and  beauty,  mingled,  won  the  esteem  of  his  heart,  and  the 
approbation  of  his  understanding  ;  but  in  Milwood  he  saw  a  far 
different  female. 

This  woman  was  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Nature  had,  indeed, 
been  liberal  of  her  gifts,  and  education  had  increased  the  value  of 
her  bounty.  Milwood  had  once  possessed  every  thing  desirable  in 
the  female  character  ;  for  she  once  possessed  virtue  and  innocence. 
But  she  parted  with  innocence,  and  in  its  stead  had  admitted,  as 
the  guest  of  her  heart,  the  most  accomplished  cunning. 

At  an  early  period  of  her  life  she  had  surrendered  all  claim  to 
chastity,  and  had  since  then  submitted  to  that  miserable  traffic, 
which  is  the  most  severe  libel  on  civilized  society. 

Too  aspiring  to  herd  with  the  unhappy  class  to  which  she  had 
reduced  herself,  her  strong  and  towering  mind  was  perpetually 
busied  upon  schemes  more  valuable  to  herself  and  far  loftier  in  the 
scale  of  wickedness  than  the  generality  of  those  of  the  unfortunate 
beings,  whose  daily  infamy  is  their  daily  bread  ! 

"  In  her  own  fall,  she  was  the  dupe  of  a  professed  rake  ;  and 
her  own  schemes  upon  the  tranquillity  of  others  were  all  infused 
with  a  large  portion  of  revenge.  Man  at  large  she  deemed  her 
enemy ;  and  the  talents,  and  the  charms  she  possessed,  she  con- 
sidered as  the  weapons  of  revenge. 

Unlike  many  a  sighing  wretch,  whom  severe  distress  urges  to 
compunctive  acts  of  shame,  Milwood  was  systematically  vicious. 
The  present  world  bounded  her  views  of  futurity,  and  the  strug- 
gles of  the  present  scene  ended,  in  her  imagination,  the  drama  of 
existence ! 

Thus  no  principles  of  a  religious  nature  swayed  her  thoughts, 
no  checks  of  conscience  ever  intervened  between  the  inclination  and 
the  deed.  Pity,  and  all  the  tender  sensibilities  which  many  na- 
tures feel,  were  her  inward  derision  ;  but  their  semblance  was  per- 
fectly at  her  command. 

Such  was  Milwood !  Such  was  she,  for  whom  Barnwell,  at 
first  sight,  had  unconsciously  imbibed  the  mpst  powerful  love ! 

She  had  never  once  seen  his  father,  or  any  of  his  relations  ;  nor 
had  ever  beheld  Barnwell  himself,  till  his  arrival  at  Mr.  Emery's. 
Having  learnt  the  very  great  confidence  reposed  in  him,  the  large 
sums  intrusted  to  his  care,  she  was  not  long  in  arranging  a  method 
to  ensnare  him  within  her  power.  For  this  purpose,  she  had  spared 


88  GBORGfc     BARN  WELL. 

no  pains  to  obtain  the  intelligence  she  had  gained  concerning  his 
family,  and  had  feigned  the  story  she  had  related  to  him,  and  which 
contained  not  one  syllable  of  truth. 

Her  sentiments,  her  tone  of  voice,  her  gestures,  were  studied  for 
the  occasion  ;  and  she  was  guided,  from  moment  to  moment,  in  the 
plan  she  would  pursue,  by  the  effect  which  her  penetration  dis- 
covered she  had  wrought  on  her  victim.  Thus  artfully  had  she 
prepared  the  ground-work  of  her  plot ;  and  had  thus  far  succeeded 
to  the  extent  of  her  wishes. 

The  interim,  between  his  departure  and  the  hour  at  which  she 
expected  his  return,  was  anxiously  spent  by  Mil  wood  ;  and  she 
repented,  more  than  once,  that  she  had  suffered  him  to  leave  her: 
a  step  to  which  she  had  consented,  chiefly  to  carry  on  appearances, 
and  from  a  persuasion,  in  which  she  was  not  mistaken,  of  her  pow- 
er over  him. 

Meanwhile  he,  for  whom  her  machinations  were  devised,  was 
planning  the  means  of  rendering  her  happy.  Many  and  various 
were  the  resolutions  he  formed,  but  all  unstable.  His  heart  had 
admitted  a  spark,  which  his  reason  was  too  impotent  to  extin- 
guish ;  and  which  was  rising  rapidly  into  a  flame,  of  whose  influ- 
ence he  was  ignorant,  but  whose  warmth  he  began  to  discover. 

If  the  imagination  of  Barn  well  was  already  wrought  to  a  dan- 
gerous warmth,  the  next  reception  he  met  with  in  Berners  Street 
was  well  calculated  to  increase  it. 

On  a  crimson  damask  sofa,  placed  under  a  brilliant  mirror,  illu- 
minated by  wax  lights,  reclined  the  siren  Milwood. — A  most  ele- 
gant white  dress  had  superseded  the  sable  weeds  of  the  morning, 
with  a  Turkish  turban,  ornamented  with  gold  cords  and  tassels. 
The  solemn  air  of  dignified  sorrow  was  exchanged  for  the  most 
fascinating  smiles ;  and,  instead  of  the  reserved  and  bashful  de- 
meanour Barnwell  had  prepared  himself  to  meet,  he  was  thrown 
off  his  guard  by  the  most  alluring  glances. 

She  did  not  rise  when  he  entered  the  room,  but,  holding  out  a 
most  beautiful  arm,  encircled  at  the  wrist  with  a  brilliant  brace- 
fet 

"  Mr.  Barnwell !"  said  she,  with  an  enchanting  softness. 

George  approached  in  the  most  profound  astonishment,  and  re- 
ceived her  offered  baud. 

"  Am  I  not  a  strange  creature  V  continued  she.  "  My  trappings 
of  wo,  you  see,  are  soon  thrown  off.  But,  in  truth,  1  did  not  think 
it  consistent  with  the  pleasure  I  expected  in  your  society,  to  wear 
the  semblance  of  sorrow." 

George  was  petrified  with  amazement,  and  doubted,  for  a  mo- 
ment, whether  the  woman  of  sentiment  he  had  seen  in  the  morning, 
and  the  wanton  form  now  before  him,  were  the  same.  As  she 
still  held  his  hand  in  hers,  she  fixed  her  sparkling  eyes  full  on  his 
face. j 

"  You  have  an  uncommon  countenance !"  said  she.  "  You  are 
very  severe — and  yet  have  great  sensibility.  You  are  a  compound 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  89 

of  the  stern  and  the  tender ;  Isscarcely  know  which  preponderate 
in  your  nature.  You  do  not  lack  courage  or  fortitude ;  at  the  same 
time  you  will  weep  at  a  tale  of  misery,  and  the  unfortunate  are 
sure  of  your  sympathy.  Is  it  not  so  1  I  have  studied  Lavater. 
Now,  let  me  try  if  I  am  mistaken.  Place  that  harp  nearer  me, 
and  I'll  sing  you  a  ditty  about  a  poor  simple  maid — '  who  never 
told  her  love,  hut  let  concealment,'  as  the  poet  says — and  so  on — 
Now  be  silent !" 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  an  idea  of  Barnwell's  situation  at  the 
present  moment.  The  feelings  with  which  he  entered  the  room, 
were  changed  so  suddenly,  it  seemed  the  work  of  enchantment. 
Pity  for  the  sorrows  of  Milwood  was  absolutely  forgotten  in  the 
bewildered  admiration  of  her  charms  ;  and  the  determination  of  his 
reason,  as  to  the  steps  he  should  pursu^,  was  lost  in  the  delightful 
and  intoxicating  dream  of  the  existing  moment. 

He  placed  the  harp — and  Milwood,  changing  her  features  from 
the  wanton  to  the  languishing,  gave  him  the  manuscript  to  hold, 
while  she  sung  and  accompanied  a  simply  pleasing  ballad  with  ex- 
quisite taste  and  melody.  The  expression  of  her  eyes  was  per- 
fectly in  unison  with  the  words  ;  and  her  voice  uttered  the  sweet- 
est sounds! It  was  a  pathetic  story,  and  affected  Barnwell  ex- 
tremely. 

"  There,"  cried  she,  "  I  knew  you  would  weep — at  a  fiction,  too  ! 
And  will  not  real  sufferings,"  continued  she,  in  a  tender  voice,  "  at 

least  as  much  affect  you  ! Ah  !  Mr.  Barnwell — to  me  only  you 

are  insensible  !  My  abrupt  sincerity  has  made  me  the  object  of 
your  scorn  ! — Yes,  cruel  and  insensible,  you  return  the  most  glow- 
ing affection  with  the  coldest  disdain." 

'"  Disdain  ! Oh,  no  !"  said  Barnwell : — "  say  rather,  admira- 
tion and  esteem !  Where  is  the  being,  who  conld  gaze  on  such 
charms,  and  disdain  their  possessor?  How  must  the  heart  be 
formed,  that  can  remain  insensible  to  so  much  beauty !" 

"  There  are  hearts,  I  fear,"  said  Milwood,  "  round  which  the  icy 
hand  of  worldly  prudence  forms  a  circle,  that  freezes  every  passion 
of  the  soul.  There  are  beings  who  can  love  according  to  a  scale  of 
reason,  and  model  their  affections  by  a  standard  !  But  I  do  not — 
cannot — think  so  young  a  heart  as  yours — " 

"Our  reason,"  interrupted  Barnwell,  "should  regulate,  not 
destroy  our  passions !" 

"  Charming  philosophy  !"  cried  Milwood,  with  a  satirical  smile. 
"  And  where  did  you  learn  that  maxim?  I  should  suppose  some 
ponderous  folio  so  says.  But  have  books  hearts?  No,  no,  Mr. 
Barnwell.  Ask  those  who  wrote  the  senseless  lies,  what  is  this 
Reason,  that  is  so  omnipotent?  Where  is  it  to  be  seen? — or  who 
possesses  it?" 

"  Astonishing!"  said  Barnwell.  "Do  you  then,  deny  the  ex- 
istence of  Reason?" 

"  Yes,  such  Reason  as  the  black  letter  gentlemen  depict.  Can 
Reason  quench  the  thirst,  or  satiate  the  appetite  of  hunger  ? — Ah  ! 


90  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

no— no !  And  ia  the  strongest  impulse  of  our  natures  to  be  so 
easily  swayed  by  Reason  then?  Why  have  we  passions? — merely 
to  torment  us?  Oh,  infamous  libel  on  the  Author  of  our  existence, 
who  has  given  his  creatures  all  things  to  enjoy. — 'Well  sings  the 
poet To  enjoy  is  to  obey  .'" 

The  air,  the  doctrine  of  Milwood  now  roused,  for  the  first  mo- 
ment, a  suspicion  in  his  mind  of  her  intentions,  which  startled 
Barn  well.  He  sunk  into  a  profound  reverie,  his  eyes  cast  on  the 
floor. — Milwood  observed  it,  and  saw  the  struggle  that  was  rising 
in  his  breast.  Perfect  mistress  of  her  art,  she  was  aware  how  im- 
perceptibly her  bold  advances  had  stolen  into  his  heart,  and  with  a 
cunning  caution  restrained  her  efforts,  and  changed  her  operations. 

Instead  of  attempting  to  continue  an  argument,  at  which  she  well 
knew  he  revolted,  she  touched  the  strings  of  the  harp,  and  raised 
an  enchantment  of  melody  ;  from  the  slowest  and  the  softest,  to  the 
most  brisk  and  lively  measures,  her  fingers  swept  the  trembling 
chords.  The  effect  on  Barnwell  was  instantaneous.  Tn  vain  did 
the  enamoured  youth  aim  to  repress  the  rising  flame — in  vain  at- 
tempt to  resist  the  maddening  impulse  of  desire  !  On  the  precipice 
of  danger,  he  was  ignorant  of  his  situation.  His  cheeks  flushed, 
his  eyes  looked  wild,  and  he  fell  back  on  the  sofa,  overcome  with 
the  force  of  such  new  and  powerful  emotions.  The  siren  saw  her 
time.  She  struck  the  harp  again,  and— 

"  Softly  sweet  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  the  sooth'd  his  soul  to  pleasures." 

She  sighed — she  gazed  with  looks  of  warmest  love — she  seemed 
to  yield  her  soul  to  her  desires — sunk  by  the  side  of  Barnwell — re- 
clined her  head  upon  his  cheek — pressed  her  warm  lips  to  his,  and 
conquered. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

I  this  ni?ht 

(Such  nhrht  till  this  t  never  pass'd)  have  dream'd, 
If  dream'd,  not,  as  I  oft  am  wont,  of  thee, 
Works  of  day  past,  or  morrow's  next  design, 
But  of  offence  and  trouble,  which  my  mind 
Knew  never  till  this  irksome  night. — MILTON'. 

"  NOT  at  home  all  night !"  exclaimed  Mental,  in  the  hall  at  Mr. 
Emery's — •"  Not  at  home  all  night!"  repeated  he. 

Whilst  he  was  speaking,  Barnwell  knocked  at  the  door.  At  the 
sight  of  Mental  he  started  back,  and  hung  down  his  head.  His  hair 
was  undressed,  his  eyes  were  red  and  swelled,  and  his  whole  ap- 
pearance proclaimed  the  revelry  in  which  the  night  had  passed. 

Mental  surveyed  him  leisurely  from  head  to  foot ;  during  which 
time  Barnwell  recovered  from  his  surprise,  and  invited  him  into  a 
parlour. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  91 

"  Having  a  few  hours  of  leisure  this  morning,"  said  Mental, 
throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  and  leaning  on  an  oaken  staff,  "  I 
came  to  have  some  conversation  with  you.  I  am  sorry  that  my 
visit  is  so  ill-timed.  I  really  had  no  intention  of  breaking  in  upon 
your  hours  of  rest ;  but  my  vulgar  ideas  had  not  associated  going 
to  bed  with  the  sun  in  the  meridian." 

"  You  are  satirical,"  said  George,  endeavouring  to  force  a  smile. 

"  You  are  hypocritical,"  replied  Mental. 

"Sir!"  exclaimed  Barnwell. 

"  He  who  attempts  to  put  a  simper  on  his  countenance,  whilst 
his  heart  aches  with  remorse,  is  a  hypocrite!"  said  Mental. 

Barnwell's  cheek  glowed  with  the  blush  of  shame 

"  Young  man,"  continued  Mental,  "  accident  has  brought  us  ac- 
quainted with  each  other.  I  love  you,  sincerely  love  you.  I  have 
wealth — I  have  no  one  to  inherit  it.  The  grave  has  covered  those 
who  were  mine— You  know  my  history — you  know  my  heart — I 
ask,  in  return,  yours — Give  it  me — Let  me  know  its  emotions — its 
trials!  Tear  from  it,  with  noble  indignation,  the  veil  that  would 
conceal  it.  1  know  it  is  human — I  know  it  cannot  be  perfect.  O, 
let  me  at  least  receive  from  a  life  of  painful  experience  the  reward- 
ing pleasure  of  being  useful  to  you.  I  know,  by  your  countenance, 
that  you  have  committed  some  act,  which  reflection  condemns  as 
indiscreet— perhaps  vicious.  Tell  me,  sincerely,  where  have  you 
spent  the  night? — in  whose  society? — in  what  pursuit?" 

"Spare  me — spare!"  cried  Barnwell. — "I  have  fallen  suffi- 
ciently in  my  own  esteem — Let  me  not  forfeit  yours !" 

"  You,  Mr.  Barnwell,  who  possess  faculties  of  no  common  mag- 
nitude, cannot  have  so  far  descended  from  the  dignity  of  a  human 
creature,  as  to  have  surrendered  the  distinguishing  powers  of  in- 
tellect to  the  grovelling  pleasures  of  the  bottle  ? — You  have  not,  I 
am  sure,  devoted  a  whole  night  to  inebriety!" 

"  No — no,  indeed,  I  have  not." 

"  Nor  can  I,  for  a  moment,  suppose  you  have  yet  sunk  into  the 
the  despicable  character  of  a  gamester!" 

"Never — never,"  cried  Barnwell,  with  warmth,  "shall  you 
have  to  upbraid  me  with  so  mean  a  vice  !" 

"  There  is  but  one  conjecture  more,  then,"  said  Mental,  with 
peculiarly  satirical  expression  : — "  but  that  would  scarcely  make 
you  sad !  Besides,  at  your  age — in  this  hot-bed  of  the  passions, 
London — I  presume  chastity  has  long  been  relinquished,  as  a  vir- 
tue unsuited  to  the  times  in  which  you  live ; — an  encumbrance,  in- 
deed, which  young  men  of  fashion  must  not  be  suspected  of  retain- 
ing.— Long  ere  last  night,  therefore — " 

"  Forbear,  I  beseeeh  you,  sir!"  said  Barnwell ;  "  you  strike  a 
painful  chord! — Till  last  night  I  had  not  to  upbraid  myself  with  a 
crime,  beyond  all  others  base — seduction!" 

"  Hold — hold — hold  ! — if  you  would  not  have  me  curse  you  !" 
cried  Mental. — "  Do  you  not  remember,"  continued  he,  clasping 
his  hands  together,  "  that  I  once  possessed  an  angel,till  Seduction 


93  GEORGE     BARNWKLL. 

tore  her  from  my  arms  ! — that  1  had  once  a  daughter !— that  I  aban- 
doned her  ;  and  that  she,  too,  was  seduced  ! — driven  to  infamy  ! — 
to  death!  And  can  you  confess  yourself  a  seducer!  Oh,  how 
often  have  I  invoked  eternal  vengeance  on  the  deliberate  betrayer  of 
confiding  innocence  i — Recall  the  odious  charge,  or  you  will  become 
more  loathsome  to  my  sight  than  leprosy.  But  it  is  impossible ! 
You  a  seducer!  It  cannot  be.  The  deliberate  seducer  must  be 
a  being — allied  to  natures  differing  from  human.  His  heart  must 
bs  a  salamander's  bed  ;  his  head  the  cool  repository  of  design  and 
artifice.  The  passions  'that  rob  other  men  of  prudence,  increase 
his  cunning,  and  render  him  the  agent  of  the  deepest  villany ! 
Such  you  cannot  be! — But  you  are  agitated — I  speak  too  warmly — 
My  feelings  must  excuse  me." 

Changing  his  voice  and  manner  into  the  softest  and  most  gentle, 
he  ceased  not  his  importunities  till  he  had  obtained  from  Barnwell 
a  relation  of  all  that  had  passed  between  himself  and  Milwood. 

When  he  had  heard  the  whole  narrative — "  'Tis  a  strange  tale !" 
cried  he;  "  a  very  strange  story!  But,  as  you  relate  it,  you 
charge  yourself  with  too  large  a  share  of  blame.  I  have  strong 
doubts  of  this  Milwood." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  have  not  seen  her — or  her  countenance  would 
prevent  such  undeserved  suspicion." 

"  You  have  promised  to  see  her  again,  of  course,"  said  Mental. 

"  See  her  again  !"  echoed  Barnwell :  "  what  tortures  would  be 
severe  enough  for  the  wretch  who  could  abandon  her!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  marry  her,  then?"  said  Mental. 

Barnwell  started  at  the  question. 

"  Your  uncle  Sir  James,  your  mother,  your  sister,  perhaps  will 
scruple  to  receive  into  their  family  a  relation  of  so  mysterious  a 
character!" 

"You  have  taken  me  by  surprise,  sir,"  said  Barnwell  :  "I  have 
as  yet  determined  upon  nothing.  My  mind  has  not  yet  recovered 
from  the  emotions  that  have  so  powerfully  agitated  it.  I  thank 
you  sincerely  for  your  generous  concern  ;  but  I  want  reflection — I 
want  to  be  alone  ! ' ' 

"  I  will  leave  you  then  to  yourself  awhile  ;  but  I  will  not  relin- 
quish my  claim  to  your  confidence.  Thus  far  you  have  acted 
openly,  and  worthy  of  yourself: — but,  if  I  am  not  deceived,  it  is 
but  the  commencement  of  a  struggle,  in  which  you  are  at  present 
victor.  Adieu,  youth,  adieu  !"  and  abruptly  he  departed. 

Barnwell  immediately  retired  to  his  chamber,  and  threw  himself 
upon  the  bed.  Overcome  with  want  of  sleep  and  anxiety  of  mind, 
he  fell  into  a  slumber  ;  but  even  in  his  sleep  Milwood  haunted  his 
imagination.  He  dreamt — '  that  he  was  sitting  in  the  little  temple 
dedicated  to  Retirement,  in  his  father's  garden,  and  that,  from  a 
window,  he  beheld  a  wide  expanse  of  ground.  His  mother  and 
Eliza  were  sitting  near  him,  and  he  was  reading  to  them  Spenre's 
Judgment  of  Hercules.  After  he  had  recited  the  poem,  as  he  re- 
clined his  head  on  his  arm,  and  mused  upon  the  view  before  him, 


GEORGE     B  A  UNWELL.  93 

*^l 

two  female  forms  appeared,  at  a  distance,  resembling  in  every  res- 
pect those  described  by  the  poet — 

"  Both  far  exceeding  human  beauty  fair  ; 
Graceful — yet  each  with  different  grace  they  move, 
This  striking  sacred  awe — that,  softer,  winning  love." 

'  As  they  drew  nearer,  a  voice,  which  seemed  to  descend  from 
above  proclaimed  that  the  trial  was  at  hand  which  was  to  deter- 
mine his  future  doom  ;  and  that  his  happiness  or  misery  depended 
upon  the  choice  of  the  present  moment.  The  females  continued  to 
advance,  and  he  now  beheld  their  countenances  distinctly,  and  im- 
mediately recognized  two  well-known  faces — those  of  Maria  Free- 
man, and  the  siren  Mil  wood.  The  former  supported  on  one  arm  a 
bee-hive,  on  the  top  of  which,  linked  by  a  golden  chain,  perched 
two  turtle  doves  :  her  other  arm  reclined  upon  a  pedestal  of  white 
marble,  on  which  was  inscribed — "  LOVE  born  of  ESTEEM,  and 
cherished  by  CONSTANCY  : — PLEASURES  the  produce  of  INDUSTRY  !" 

'  He  was  tat  the  point  of  kneeling  before  the  lovely  visioi ,  when 
the  other  female  stepped  gaily  on,  and  placed  herself  before  the 
pedestal.  Arrayed  in  a  robe, 

"that  betray 'd, 

Thro'  the  clear  texture  ev'ry  tender  limb, 
Hci-fht'niiisr  the  charms  it  only  seemed  to  shade; 
And  as  it  flow'd  artown  so  loose  and  thin, 
Her  statue  show'd  more  tall — more  snowy  white  her  skin  !" 

'  Her  right  hand  held  a  chalice,  into  which  dropped,  unpressed 
from  a  cluster  of  grapes  suspended  by  her  left,  the  intoxicating 
juice.  Light  as  the  motion  of  the  air  she  danced  awhile,  and  then, 
with  graceful  agility,  sprung  on  a  pedestal  of  ruby,  on  which,  in- 
scribed in  golden  letters,  were  the  words — "  LOVE,  free  as  air  ! — 
PLEASURES  stolen  from  other's  TOILS!" 

'  He  quitted  his  mother  and  sister,  and  descended  into  the  plain. 
As  he  stood  wavering  before  these  forms,  his  soul,  now  swelled  to 
virtuous  achievements,  by  the  majestic  look  and  inspiring  language 
of  the  one  ; — now  sinking  into  wanton  ease,  beneath  the  alluring 
glances  and  the  siren  songs  of  the  other.  A  chorus,  in  sound  like 
that  which  fills  the  vaults  of  heaven,  from  golden  harps  and  an- 
gels' voices,  struck  his  enamoured  ear — 

Shun.  O,  youth,  the  siren's  arms  ; 
Ruin  lurks  beneuth  her  charms  I 
From  her  offered  cup  refrain, 
As  you  dread  severest  pain, 
"Tis  the  trench' rous  cup  of  Vice—- 
Peace of  mind  its  only  price  I 

'  As  this  chorus  was  singing,  the  female,  who  resembled  Mil- 
wood,  scoffed  by  her  smiles  and  gestures  the  warning  voice,  and  in 
derision  flourished  h<»r  cluster  of  grapes  in  the  air  ;  whilst  the  form 
that  bore  the  countenance  of  Maria,  raised  her  fine  blue  eyes  in 
calm  and  tranquil  contemplation.  He  turned  his  attention  now 
wholly  on  the  latter  ;  and  the  more  he  gazed,  the  more  lovely  she 


94  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

seemed.  He  was  approaching  respectfully  to  take  her  hand,  wheu 
the  Wanton  descended  from  the  pedestal,  and  again  intercepted 
him.  She  danced  before  him,  and  threw  herself  into  the  most  cap- 
tivating attitudes — at  intervals  kneeling  before  him,  and  earnestly 
entreating  him  to  accept  the  chalice,  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

'  As  his  mind  wavered,  and  his  eyes  roved  from  one  form  to  the 
other,  he  reflected  on  the  chorus,  and  was  spurning  the  importu- 
nate Wanton,  when  another  chorus  arrested  his  attention.  It  as- 
cended as  from  a  vault  beneath  his  feet,  and  was  preceded  by  loud 
peals  of  laughter.  It  was  accompanied  by  music,  but  of  a  different 
nature  from  the  former  :  the  notes  were  brisker,  and  louder,  but 
wanted  harmony  and  sweetness.  He  listened,  however  ;  and  this 
was  the  strain 

Can'st  thou.  then,  reject  the  fair  t 
Mark  her  mien  !     Her  jetty  hair 
Flows  luxuriant  on  her  breast, 
Where  young  Cupids  nestling  rest? 
Listen,  youth,  'tis  Pleasure's  voice 
Bids  thy  gen'rous  heart  rejoice. 
Taste  the  cup  that  Beauty  gives 

*He,  alone,  who  drinks  it,  lives. 
Ask  thy  youthful,  growing  fires 
What  it  is  thy  soul  desires  : 
Love  shall  whisper  in  thine  ear — 
"  Taste  the  cup,  and  banish  fear 
Quickly  through  thy  veins  shall  flow 
Raptures  none  but  lovers  know  !" 

'  Whilst  he  listened  to  this  song,  the  siren  had  wove  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  placed  the  chalice  to  his  lips.  He  tasted 
the  intoxicating  draught ! — At  that  moment  the  shrouded  shade  of 
his  father  approached  solemnly  from  the  temple,  with  his  mother 
and  Eliza  in  either  hand. — As  they  passed  him,  they  looked  on 
him  with  a  countenance  of  deep  felt  pity,  and  walked  on  towards 
the  pedestal  where  the  semblance  of  Maria  still  remained  ;  but  her 
appearance  was  changed  :  the  emblems  she  had  held  were  vanish- 
ed, and  she  looked  pale  as  a  spectre.  As  soon  as  the  group  reach- 
ed her,  the  pedestal  became  changed  into  a  sepulchre,  which  en- 
closed within  its  womb  his  father,  his  mother,  and  Maria,  whilst 
Eliza  stood  weeping  over  the  tomb  as  it  sunk. 

'  He  trembled,  and  exclaimed  in  agony — "  O,  Beauty,  what  a 
sacrifice  have  I  made  to  thy  charms  ! — Too  powerful  Beauty,  what 
hast  thou  done  !"  As  he  spoke  these  words,  he  turned  round  to 
Milwood,  whom  he  thought  he  addressed,  and  found  he  was  clasp- 
ing a  skeleton,  which  grinned  horribly  at  his  surprise  ;  and  striking 
him  with  a  lifted  dart,  occasioned  him  so  severe  a  pain  at  his  heart, 
that  he  awoke  in  inexpressible  horror.' 

"  Merciful  Heaven,  what  a  dream  !"  exclaimed  he. — "  My 
mother ! — My  sister ! — My  sainted  father,  too  ! — O,  God  !  how 
sadly  did  they  gaze  upon  me  ! — What  can  such  a  vision  portend  ? 
Surely,  I  am  upon  the  brink  of  some  dreadful  precipice !  Mil- 
wood  !— Milwood ! — shall  I  ever  have  cause  to  curse  the  day  we 


GEORGE      BARN  WELL.  95 

met ! — Already  have  the  guilty  pleasures  I  have— yet,  why  guilty? 
Can  a  form  of  words  be  of  so  much  import  ?  No,  surely  !  Our 
hearts  are  united,  and  our  vows  are  registered  in  heaven!  Why 
then  do  I  feel  as  if  I  had  committed  a  crime  ?  Why  does  my  heart 
deny  me  its  wonted  approbation  ?  Why  am  I  tormented  with  such 
phantasies?  If  our  passions  have  been  strong  still  they  are  not  im- 
pure !  nor,  on  my  part,  shall  they  be  ever  so.  To  one  only  object 
have  they  yielded — and  the  same  pure  affection  shall  control  them 
ever  !  Yes,  Mil  wood,  enveloped  as  thou  now  art  in  mystery,  I  will 
soon  rend  the  veil  from  thy  character,  and  present  thee,  deserving 
as  thou  must  be,  to  those  that  will  love  thee  for  the  sake  of  thy 
Barnwell.  Haste,  then,  away,  ye  intervening  hours!  and  let  the 
moment  come,  that  shall  forever  ease  my  breast  of  anxious  doubt !" 
Such  was  the  state  of  mind  in  which  Barnwell  passed  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  He  anxiously  looked  forward  to  the  hour 
they  had  appointed  to  meet,  and,  pleading  indisposition,  remained 
in  his  chamber,  musing  on  the  prospect  before  him,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  mark  out  a  suitable  course  to  pursue. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

A  truly  good  man  is,  upon  many  occasions,  extremely  susceptible  of  tender  senti- 
ment!) ;  and  his  heart  expands  with  joy,  or  sinks  with  sorrow,  as  good  or  ill  fortune 
accompanies  his  friends. — CICERO. 

ABOUT  an  hour  before  the  time  appointed  for  Barnwell  to  be  in 
Berners  Street,  the  following  letter  was  delivered  to  him  : 

"Author  of  my  future  destiny  ! — my  conqueror  1 — my  husband  ! — (will  you  allow  the 
title?) — etill  dearer  name,  my  Barnwell  ! — your  trembling  Mil  wood  throws  herself  up- 
on your  generosity— she  trusts  implicitly  on  a  heart  that  has  so  effectually  mastered  her 
own  ! 

"My  uncle  is  in  pursuit  of  me — For  worlds,  I  would  not  at  present  behold  him.  He 
has  inquired  for  me  in  Berners  street  I  was  of  course  denied.  He  is  to  be  there 
again  this  evening. 

"  Oh  !  how  I  wanted  your  advice  : — Why  had  you  left  me  1  As  it  was,  I  was  com- 
pelled «.o  a  decisive  conduct.  I  discharged  the  lodgings  immediately — ordered  a  post- 
chaise,  and  drove  to  Barnet ;  from  thence  took  another  chaise,  and,  appearing  to  have 
changed  my  mind,  ordered  the  driver  to  set  me  down  in  Piccadilly. 

"I  write  from  the  house  of  a  tradesman,  whom  I  have  formerly  employed  :  and  leave 
your  feelings  to  express  to  you  how  impatiently  I  wait  your  arrival  ! — What  shall  I 
subscribe  myself  ?— Oh  !  Barnwrll,  for  both  our  sakes,  let  me  entreat  your  presence  I 
And  let  fate  play  what  part  it  will,  I  shall  ever  be  "  Your  own  ! 

"  The  bearer  will  direct  you." 

Thunderstruck  at  such  an  unexpected  proceeding,  Barnwell  was 
for  some  time  incapable  of  deciding  what  steps  to  take.  While  he 
hesitated,  Mental  entered  the  room — He  still  held  the  letter  in  his 
hand — 

"  You  are  engaged?"  said  Mental. 

"  No,  sir, — Yes,  sir — that  is — I — " 

"  Well,  sir,"  cried  Mental,  "  I'll  not  intrude.  I  may,  perhaps, 
bring  stale  news  too.  I  have  inquired  twice  to-day  in  Berners 


96  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

Street.  At  first  the  lady  was  not  visible ;  the  second  time,  I 
learned  that  she  had  taken  post  horses,  and  left  town.  You  may 
possibly  know  the  route." 

"  No,  sir — Yes,  sir "  cried  Barnwell,  again  hesitating. 

"  Ah  !"  said  Mental—"  how  difficult  does  nature  find  the  wind- 
ing paths  of  mean  dissimulation  !  If  you  would  retain  your  peace 
of  mind,  oh,  youth,  retain  sincerity  ! — and  remember,  that  shame  or 
danger  will  prove  as  unwelcome  at  the  end  of  a  maze,  as  if  boldly 
met  at  their  first  appearance!" 

Ere  Barnwell  could  reply,  Mental  took  his  hand  affectionately — 
"  One  caution  let  me  impress  upon  your  memory,  and  I  am  gone — 
Make  no  promises  of  secrecy  ! — farewell." 

Barnwell,  had  not  the  power,  nor,  indeed,  just  then,  the  inclina- 
tion to  detain  him  ;  and  he  retired. 

"  He  has  called  twice  in  Berners  Street!"  said  Barnwell,  after 
his  departure.  "  Perhaps,  then,  Milwood  may  have  imagined  his 
inquiries  to  be  her  uncle's.  But  why  that  caution  as  to  promises 
of  secrecy  1  Surely  Milwood — But  whilst  I  am  arguing,  she  spends 
the  moments  in  anxious  expectation  !" 

He  rushed  towards  the  door,  and  desired  the  man  who  waited  to 
conduct  him  to  Milwood.  Immediately  they  met ;  she  ran  to  him 
apparently  in  the  greatest  distress  of  mind,  and  hiding  her  face  in 
his  bosom — "Oh,  hide  me — hide  me,  my  dear  Barnwell,  from  my 
pursuers  !" 

"  Dispel  these  fears,  madam  !"  said  Barnwell.  "  Your  alarms 
may  be  groundless — 'Tis  possible  you  may  have  mistaken  the  de- 
scription of  another  person  for  your  uncle." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Milwood — "I  have  seen  him.  He  pursues 
me,  and  will  tear  me  forever  from  these  loved  arms! — Oh,  how 
cruel — how  peculiarly  cruel  is  my  destiny  ! — Perhaps  already  he  has 
traced  my  chaise  to  this  A'ery  door,  and  will  soon  be  here.  Let  us 
quit  the  house  !" 

Barnwell,  alarmed,  and  greatly  concerned  for  her  distress, 
thought  of  nothing  at  the  moment  but  relieving  it.  "  Where  will 
you  be  safe?"  exclaimed  he. 

''  Alas  !  I  know  not ! — But  let  us  this  moment  quit  this  place — 
My  trunks  may  be  left  here  for  the  present — Come,  come  !" 

She  hurried  on  her  cloak,  and,  leaning  on  his  arm,  walked  to- 
wards the  door.  They  had  walked  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  house  ere  Barnwell  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  the  surprise 
her  conduct  had  occasioned. 

"I  am  faint!"  cried  Milwood.  This  aroused  him;  and  being 
near  the  coach  stand  at  Hyde  Park  Gate,  he  called  a  hackney 
coach.  When  they  were  seated — "  Where  am  I  to  drive,  your 
honour?"  said  the  man. 

Milwood  leaning  her  head  against  the  side  of  the  coach,  re- 
mained silent — Barnwell  knew  not  how  to  answer.  After  a  con- 
siderable pause — "  The  case  is  this,"  said  Barnwell :  "  this  lady  is 
just  arrived  in  town,  and  we  want  lodgings — Drive  slowly  along 


GEORGE      BARK  WELL.  97 

the  Brompton  road,  and  if  you  observe  an  advertisement  at  any 
door,  stop  there." 

The  coachman  obeyed — They  stopped  at  a  house  kept  by  a 
widow,  and  Barnwell  hired  the  lodging  at  the  rate  of  two  guineas 
a  week.  Milwood,  thus  placed  in  a  safe  retreat,  as  she  pretended, 
from  her  uncle,  gradually  resumed  her  serenity  of  countenance, 
and  expressed  her  gratitude  to  Barnwell  in  the  warmest  language, 
and  by  the  most  seducing  endearments. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

It  is  hard  to  personate  snd  act  a  part  long,  where  truth  is  not  at  the  bottom  :  Nature 
will  always  be  endeavouring  to  return,  and  will  peep  out,  and  betray  herself  one  time 
or  other.— Tu-LOTSON. 

THE  pretended  fears  of  Milwood,  so  admirably  played,  com- 
pletely answered  the  purpose  for  which  she  had  assumed  them 
Her  penetration  had  easily  discovered  that  Barnwell's  mind,  if 
time  was  allowed  him  for  reflection,  would  too  scrupulously  exam- 
ine the  question  of  propriety.  She  therefore  artfully  resolved  to 
take  him  by  surprise. 

The  apartments  in  Berners  Street  she  had  taken  for  the  express 
purpose  of  their  first  interview,  where  she  had  resided  but  a  few 
days,  and  had  actually  discharged  them  in  the  manner  she  had  re- 
lated. The  story  of  her  uncle's  pursuit  was  entirely  a  fiction. 
Her  present  aim  was  to  obtain  a  habitation  at  the  expense  of  Barn- 
well  ;  and  this,  it  is  seen,  she  accomplished. 

Having  thus  far  succeeded,  a  pause  in  her  operations  was  neces- 
sary. She  now,  therefore,  dallied  with  the  unfortunate  youth,  who 
was  the  victim  of  her  arts,  and  evaded  all  his  inquiries  as  to  her 
future  designs.  When  an  air  of  sadness  marked  his  features,  she 
would  sing — when  he  hinted  his  wish  that  they  were  married,  she 
sighed  deeply,  turned  her  head  away  from  him,  and  talked  on 
some  different  subject — when  he  spoke  of  his  friends,  she  affected 
the  extremes!  agitation  ;  wept,  (for  she  could  weep  at  will,) 
and  implored  him,  as  he  valued  her  life,  to  retain  their  connexion 
an  inviolable  secret  for  at  least  some  time  to  come. 

Barnwell  started,  as  the  caution  of  Mental,  '  never  to  promise 
secrecy,'  rushed  across  his  memory. — "  Why,  why  should  there 
be  secrecy  V  he  exclaimed. 

"  Our  fates  have  rendered  it  most  necessary,"  she  answered. — 
"  Ah  !  Barnwell,  you  know  not  yet  all  the  perplexities  that  rack 
this  heart.  Pardon  the  mysterious  veil  that  for  a  moment  conceals 
it,  and  confide  in  the  assurance  that  it  is  whollv  and  forever  yours. 
'Twere  to  be  wished,  that  wr. — yes,  we,  (for  I  will  not  affect  to 
throw  the  guilt  wholly  on  you,)  had  not  yielded  to  the  too  power- 
ful impulse  of  our  passions  ! — but  who  can  recall  the  past  ?  How 
useless,  then,  it  is  to  repine  !  Let  us,  my  dear  Barnwell,  rather 


98  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

conquer,  than  submit  to  our  fate,  and  employ  ourselves  in  a  prudent 
anticipation  of  the  future,  in  preference  to  a  gloomy  retrospect  of 
the  past!" 

Such  were  the  blandishments  with  which  the  siren  soothed  the 
regrets  of  Barn  well,  and  such  the  arts  by  which  she  bound  him  in 
unfelt  fetters. 

At  his  return  home,  the  following  morning,  he  found  a  packet 
of  despatches  from  his  uncle's.  Soon  as  he  saw*  the  well-known 
writing,  his  heart  smote  him. 

For  some  days  previous  to  the  unfortunate  meeting  with  Mil- 
wood,  accident  had  prevented  his  writing  to  his  sister,  with  whom 
he  had  hitherto  regularly  corresponded,  since  his  arrival  in 'London  ; 
and  the  events  which  had  occurred  since  then  were  such  as  he  felt 
no  inclination  to  relate.  With  the  just  apprehensions  of  reproof, 
therefore,  he  broke  the  seals,  and  read  the  following  letters. 

LETTER  I. 

"  My  dear  son — I  am  uneasy  at  a  silence,  of  which  I  know  not  the  cause.  If  you  are 
as  happy  as  usual,  why  not  let  us  be  equally  so,  in  knowing  that  you  are?  If  other- 
wise, why  so  selfish  as  to  retain,  in  your  own  breast,  cares  in  which  others  have  a 
right  to  participate  ?  It  is  impossible  you  can  forget  that  you  have  a  sincere  friend  in 
your  most  affectionate  mother,  "  E.  BARNWELL." 

LETTER  II. 

"  It  is  with  pain,  my  dear  brother,  I  am  compelled  to  complain  of  you,  even  to  your- 
self !  You  were  by  no  means  acting  politically,  to  be  so  good  and  attentive  a  brother, 
and  so  punctual  and  pleasing  a  correspondent,  if  you  foresaw  the  present  neglect, 
which  is  extremely  increased  in  its  effects  by  the  contrast —Ignorant  too,  as  I  am,  of 
the  cause  of  your  silence,  ten  thousand  tormenting  supposes  are  rapidly  succeeding 
each  other.  You  paint  the  amiable  Maria  in  such  pleasing  tints,  that  I  sometimes  sup- 
pose you  devote  my  little  portion  of  your  time  to  the  study  of  your  favourite  picture. 
Yet,  if  so,  say  I  to  myself,  surely  he  would  delight  in  recounting  the  charms  he  dis- 
covers. Suppose  some  face,  or  some  mind,  more  engaging  than  Maria's,  has  supplant- 
ed her  in  his  approbation,  would  he  not  have  been  eager  to  have  displayed  to  his 
Eliza  those  superior  attractions  ?  Suppose  he  should  be  reclining  on  the  uneasy  pil- 
low of  a  sick  bed  ! — Thus,  my  dear  brother,  do  I  torture  imagination  to  find  excuses 
for  your  conduct;  but,  as  imagination  has  yet  offered  nothing  in  your  favour  to  the 
satisfaction  of  your  judge,  you  are  now  called  upon  for  your  defence.  Speak,  then, 
sir — You  have  a  powerful  pleader  in  the  breast  of  your  Eliza;  and  if  you  can  make 
but  a  tolerable  excuse,  you  may  assure  yourself  of  a  ready  acquittal.  His  necessary 
to  conclude,  by  way  of  memento,  in  the  old  fashioned  style,  that  I  am,  dear  brother, 
your  affectionate  sister,  "  ELIZA  BARNWELL." 

LETTER    III. 

"Dear  nephew — I  take  this  opportunity  of  expressing  to  you  my  approbation  of 
your  conduct,  the  report  of  which,  as  well  from  Mr.  Freeman  as  Mr.  Emery,  gives  me 
great  pleasure.  I  am  sure  it  is  needless  in  me  to  give  advice  to  one  who  so  well  knows 
what  is  right;  at  the  same  time  my  wishes  for  your  welfare  make  me  remind  you  how 
important  the  effects  of  your  present  actions  are  in  forming  your  future  comfort,  or 
otherwise.  I  hope  you  pay  particular  attention  to  your  expenses,  and  never  suffer 
yourself,  for  the  sake  of  momentary  pleasures  or  false  pride,  to  go  beyond  the  mark, 
which  would  compel  you  to  descend  to  real  meanness,  or  bring  on  lasting  uneasiness. 
You  will  take  this  as  caution,  not  reproof.  1  have  every  reason  to  rely  upon  your 
prudence,  and  shall  fall  with  quiet  into  my  grave,  if  only  I  am  permitted  to  see  my 
brother's  son  settled  respectably  in  life,  and  become  the  guardian  and  protector  of  his 
widowed  mother,  and  his  sister,  which,  if  you  please,  you  will  be  enabled  to  be.  I  have 
remitted  you  a  draft  for  fifty  pounds.  Should  any  emergency,  at  any  time,  occasion 
you  a  pecuniary  want,  let  me  be  your  friend  ;  and  I  charge  you  by  no  means  to  lie 
under  obligations  of  this  sort  to  any,  but  to  your  most  affectionate  uncle, 

"  JAMES  BARNWELL." 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  99 

These  letters,  the  simple,  genuine  effusions  of  affectionate  hearts, 
were  perused  by  Barnwell  with  mingled  sensations  of  pleasure  and 
pain.  When  he  compared  the  last  of  them  with  his  situation  with 
respect  to  Mihvood,  he  shuddered. 

"  What  steps  shall  1  pursue?"  said  the  distracted  j'outh. 
*'  They  charge  me  with  silence — How  shall  I  ever  write  again  ! — 
I  have  pledged  myself  to  Milwood — I  have  sworn  to  be  secret.  If 
I  write,  therefore,  I  must  conceal  from  them  my  perplexities — I 
must  disguise  my  feelings — I  must  invent  occurrences  to  account 
for  my  time. — Dreadful  situation  !  And  who  can  foresee  its  dura- 
tion ?  How  long  may  the  too  lovely  Milwood  envelope  herself  in 
this  impenetrable  veil  of  mystery  ! 

"  I  have  incurred  a  certain  expense  in  a  provision  for  her — per- 
haps too  far — Oh,  God  !  what  a  precipice  am  I  descending  !  There 
is  no  possible  way  of  sustaining  my  ground,  but  by  a  timely  dis- 
closure of  my  errors — and  from  that  I  am  prevented  by  a  rash  oath  ! 
Long  this  secrecy  cannot  last.  Liberal  as  my  uncle  is,  his  gener- 
osity cannot  equal  wants  of  which  he  never  dreams.  Why  did  1 
make  so  rash  a  promise !  Why  should  she  exact  it ! — So  contrary 
to  my  nature — to  my  practice  too! — I  hate,  I  abhor  secrecy!  'Tis 
but  another  name  for  deception !  I  will  fly  instantly  and  retract 
my  engagement.  I  will  convince  her  how  necessary  it  is  that 
our  marriage  should  immediately  take  place,  and  be  declared  ; 
— then,  even  if  the  anger  of  my  benefactor  should  oveipower 
his  tenderness  and  affection,  I  have  the  world  before  me — In- 
dustry shall  supply  the  necessities  of  nature ;  and  the  sweet  re- 
ward of  sincerity,  my  heart's  approbation,  shall  make  ample 
amends  for  the  luxuries  I  lose.  But  to  continue  the  mean  paths  of 
dissimulation — to  start  at  every  noise — to  tremble  at  every  glance — 
existing  under  the  uplifted  rod  of  Fear,  is  worse,  much  worse,  than 
any  evil  which  can  result  from  an  opposite  conduct.  This  is  the 
voice  of  Prudence,  of  Interest — and  is  in  unison  with  the  lessons  of 
Morality  and  the  precepts  of  Religion. — I  will  obey  it  instantly." 

Such  were  the  inward  musings  of  Barnwell ;  such  was  the  noble 
resolution  of  his  heart.  As  he  was  completely  master  of  his  own 
time  in  Mr.  Emery's  absence,  he  answered  some  letters  received 
that  morning  from  Buxton,  and  went  immediately  to  Brompton. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

Sincerity, 

Thou  first  of  virtues,  let  DO  mortal  leave  \ 
Thy  onward  path,  although  the  earth  should  gape, 
And  from  the  gulf  of  hell  Destruction  cry, 
To  take  Dissimulation's  winding  way. — TBAGEDY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

"Tnis  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  indeed,  my  Barnwell,"  said 
Milwood,  as  she  received  him  with  a  well-feigne^  air  of  satisfac- 

5 


100  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

tion,  though  she  would  gladly  have  dispensed  with  his  presence  ; 
'•  how  much  I  owe  you  for  this  endearing  attention !" 

"  Hold  !"  cried  Barnwell,  seriously  ; — "  be  first  certain  that  my 
visit  is  volunteered !" 

"  By  so  grave  an  address,  you  terrify  me  !"  cried  she,  pretend- 
ing excessive  alarm.  "  Tell  me,  my  dear  Barnwell,  why  are  you 
so  serious?  Where  are  those  smiles  that  have  gained  such  a  tri- 
umph V 

"  They  are  absent,  1  hope,  only  for  a  time,"  said  Barnwell. 
"  It  is  in  your  power  to  recall  them." 

"  Oh,  say  by  what  means?" 

"  Give  me  back  my  oath  of  secrecy,  for  I  cannot  be  secret — it  is 
contrary  to  my  nature,  and  my  heart  will  be  never  at  ease  till  my 
countenance  is  at  liberty." 

"  Absurd  !"  said  Milwood,  with  a  smile  half  satire,  half  scorn. 
"  Are  mankind,  then,  to  walk  the  paths  of  society  with  trasparent 
breasts  ?  Are  we  to  give  the  world  the  clue  of  all  our  actions  ? 
Secrecy,  my  Barnwell,  is  a  virtue  of  the  first  class  in  the  present 
system  of  things  ;  and  the  being  is  as  mad,  who  throws  it  aside,  as 
he  who  rushes  with  a  naked  breast  upon  a  hostile  spear.  You  are 
too  unacquainted  with  a  tricking  world,  my  Barnwell.  When  you 
shall  know  its  wiles,  how  will  you  laugh  at  your  present  childish 
notions!" 

"  Then  may  I  never  know  them !  I  cannot,  and  I  will  not,  be  a 
hypocrite  !" 

Barnwell  spake  this  with  so  much  earnestness,  that  Milwood 
trembled  for  its  consequences.  Turning  her  powers,  therefore, 
against  this  rising  strength  of  resolution,  which  alarmed  her,  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  throwing  herself  into  a  chair 

"  Go,  then  proud  youth  ;  proclaim,  through  the  wide  circle  of 
your  friends,  the  triumph  you  have  gained ;  display  the  spoil  your 
conquering  charms  have  won  ;  exhibit  my  disgrace  ;  summon  to 
my  ears  the  songs  of  scorn ;  and  give  to  foul-mouthed  Calumny  the 
prey  that  you  despise  !" 

"  How  wildly  you  talk,  matiam  !"  cried  Barnwell,  still  strug- 
gling to  resist  the  tender  influence  he  felt. 

"  Madam!"  echoed  Milwood — "  madam!" 

"Pardon  me — my — what  name — what  title  shall  I  give  you? 
Why  will  you  not  this  moment  give  me  a  right  to  call  you  wife !" 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  cried  Milwood;  "are  you  delirious? 
What  can  add  to  the  right  which  /  have  granted  you  ? — What  mean 
you,  then?  Do  you  allude  to  the  mummery  invented  for  the  use 
of  those  who  have  not  faculties  of  their  own  to  define  the  laws  of 
nature?  Am  I  the  less  yours — are  you  the  less  your  Milwood's 
because  a  ceremony  is  omitted  ?" 

"No,  Milwood,  no. — In  my  own  estimation,  you  are  mine  as 
sacredly  as  possible.  Have  we  not  sworn  a  mutual  faith  in  His 
presence,  who  is  every  where!  Our  vows  are  registered  by 
Him 


GEORGE      BARN  WELL.  101 


-'  whose  temple  is  all  space, 


Whose  altar,  earth — sea — skies.' 

The  solemnity  of  an  earthly  temple,  or  the  sanctity  of  temporal 
altars,  therefore,  cannot  increase  the  force  of  obligation  with  a 
mind,  that  thinks  as  mine  does  !  But  oh,  Mihvood !  I  am  not  a 
solitary  being — I  have  a  mother,  a  sister,  whose  happiness  is  wove 
with  my  own. — I  have  a  benefactor,  too,  whose  generous  kindness 

deserves  the  warmest  gratitude!  Can  I  tell  them,  that  I 

Could  I  introduce " 

"  'Tis  because  you  can  not  do  this,  that  I  required  your  secrecy." 

"  But  you  will  permit  me  to  add,  that  if  we  had  the  sanction  of 
custom  (not  to  say  the  obligation  of  the  law)  to  our  connexion, 
there  would  exist  no  cause  of  secrecy  !  Those  who  love  me  will 
receive  you  as  my  wife  ;  and •" 

"Surely,  surely  you  will  not  imagine,  my  dear  Barnwell,  that 
from  choice  I  throw  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  your  proposals ; — 
it  is  impossible  you  should  think  so  ; — but  at  present,  for  some  time 
at  least,  we  cannot  marry  !" 

"What  mystery  veils  you,  Milwood !  O,  cast  it  off.  There 
cannot  be  a  thought  that  either  of  us  should  engross  to  ourselves : 
let  me  beseech  you  to  confide  in  me." 

"  Only  for  a  little  space  of  time,  my  Barnwell,  spare  me.  Soon 
shall  the  veil  that  now  conceals  my  heart,  forever  be  removed  : — 
then  shall  our  breasts  be  the  common  repositories  of  our  mutual 
thoughts— there  shall  not  be  a  hope  or  a  fear  of  one  unknown  to 
the  other ;  but  so  blended  shall  become  our  very  thoughts,  we 
shall  together  form  but  one  existence  !" 

"  And  why  is  that  moment  postponed  ?" 

"  You  know  not,  my  dear  Barnwell,  how  you  wound  me  by  this 
useless  importunity.  I  do  not  form  my  resolutions  on  caprice,  but 
on  the  existing  right  or  wrong  I  see  before  me ;  and,  therefore,  I 
never  change  my  purpose;  but  with  the  revolution  of  existing 
causes.  I  act  from  motives,  not  from  impulse  ;  else  I  might,  by 
your  persuasions,  be  moved  to  reveal  a  secret,  that  my  reason  now 
denies  you.  However  much,  therefore,  your  importunities  may 
afflict  my  heart,  they  shall  not,  they  cannot,  subdue  the  sovereign 
power  of  intellectual  decision  !" 

"  Extraordinary  woman  !"  cried  Barnwell.  "  How,  then,  am  I 
to  act?  Say,  Milwood,  had  you  a  mother  and  a  sister  whom  you 
loved,  and  to  whom  you  had  been  accustomed  to  reveal  your  in- 
most thoughts,  could  you  refrain  from  recounting  such  a  train  of 
interesting  events  as  have  occurred  to  us  within  these  few  impor- 
tant days!" 

"What  can  be  more  easily  decided  than  your  question  ?  Ask 
yourself,  what  benefit  you  can  expect  from  revealing  these  events? 
— You  would  merely  create  a  host  of  painful  apprehensions  in 
those  breasts,  which  you  wish  should  be  the  mansions  of  peace; 
and  the  only  possible  result  of  their  knowing  what  has  passed, 


102  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

would  be  a  painful  anxiety  to  know  more  than  it  is  at  present  in 
your  power  to  reveal." 

"  And  yet,  to  conceal  the  true  state  of  my  mind,  I  must  feign  a 
satisfaction  I  do  not  feel ;  I  must  assume  an  indifference  to  which 
my  heart  is  a  stranger.  How  can  I  answer  such  letters  as  these?" 

BaiTiwell  then  gave  her  the  three  letters  he  had  received  in  the 
morning. When  she  had  perused  them 

"  Your  sister  is  an  amiable  girl ;  and  your  mother  is,  doubtless, 
a  good  woman,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I  scarcely  know  how  to  pronounce 
oa  your  uncle.  His  letters  of  prudence  seem  more  the  acquisitions 
of  habit,  than  the  suggestions  of  his  own  reason.  He  is  very  rich, 
I  presume  1" 

"  I  undeistand  so." 

"  And  has  no  children?" 

"None." 

"Your  mother  and  sister  reside  with  him: — of  course,  to  ac- 
quaint them  with  our  connexion,  would  be  the  same  as  informing 
your  uncle." 

"  Does  that  follow?" 

"  Yes  ;  unless  they  can  feign  a  satisfaction  they  do  not  fed,  ana 
assume  an  indifference  to  which  their  hearts  are  strangers,  you 
know  !" 

Barnwell  smiled. 

"I  perceive,  my  Barnwell,"  continued  she,  the  state  of  your 
mind.  It  has  hitherto  been  too  much  swayed  by  prejudice  early 
imbibed,  and  still  unexamined.  But  as  you  advance  in  life,  you 
will  discover,  that  the  wisest  and  the  best  of  mankind  find  it  impos- 
sible to  model  their  actions  by  given  rules.  The  incidents  of  life 
hinge  so  entirely  oa  chance,  that  our  situations,  relatively  and  in- 
dividually, assume  many  complex  s  aapes ;  and  are  perpetually  at 
variance  with  defined  notions  of  duty.  'Tis,  therefore,  impossible 
to  exhibit  a  standard  of  virtue  or  vice. 

"  Let.  us  apply  this  observation  to  your  present  situation  : — You 
say  you  cannot  be  a  hypocrite  !  I  grant  you,  hypocrisy  is  classed 
amongst  what  are  called  vices;  but  will  any  one  say,  that  to  dis- 
tress the  feelings  of  a  mother  and  sister,  to  wound  their  hearts 
with  the  arrows  of  perplexing  doubts  and  apprehensions,  is  more 
virtuous  than  simply  to  conceal  the  events  which  have  passed,  and 
which  were  not  the  effects  of  our  own  designs?  Such  a  doctrine, 
scarcely  merits  a  moment's  thought !" 

By  these  and  similar  arguments  did  this  mistress  of  dissimulation 
at  length  defeat  the  noble  purposes  of  that  sincerity  which  hitherto 
had  dwelt  in  Barnwell's  breast,  and  he  fatally  resolved  to  keep  his 
friends  in  ignorance  of  his  situation. 

In  the  honesty  of  his  nature,  he  had  confessed  to  Milwood,  that 
he  had  mentioned  the  affair  to  one  friend  ;  but  that  he  was  igno- 
rant of  any  thing  that  occurred  since  their  second  interview  ;  and, 
overcome  by  her  tears,  her  arguments,  and  her  persuasions,  he 
promised  he  would  never  allow  himself  to  mention  her  again,  even 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  103 

to  this  one  friend,  nor  would  ever  suffer  him  to  name  her  to  him- 
self. 

This  was  the  precise  point  which  the  arts  of  Milwood  aimed  to 
accomplish  ;  for  she  well  knew  that,  among  the  many  and  various 
errors  to  which  youth  and  inexperience  are  exposed,  there  is  none 
more  fatal  in  its  consequences,  than  the  concealment  oi  having 
committed  them.  The  first  deviating  steps  from  the  paths  of  rec- 
titude may  often  be  retraced  by  the  aid  of  friendly  counsel  ;  but  he 
who  denies  himself  that  timely  aid,  will  in  vain  implore  its  efficacy 
when  entangled  in  the  maze  of  deception ;  and  when  every  ave- 
nue on  the  return  to  happiness  is  obstructed  by  some  unexpected 
obstacle. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

With  wary  caution  you  must  bear  yourself 
In  public,  lest  your  tenderness  break  forth 
Aud  in  observers  stir  conjectures  strauge. — TRAGEDY  OF  DOUGLAS. 

THOUOH  Barn  well's  inclination  led  him  to  devote  the  whole  of 
his  leisure  to  the  company  of  Milwood,  respect  to  Mr.  Emery 
pointed  out  the  propriety  of  a  visit  to  the  Pavilion,  where  he  had 
lately  become  a  stranger. 

'Twas  a  delightful  evening  in  September,  when,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  acquaintance  with  Milwood,  he  arrived  there.  A 
period  of  ten  or  twelve  days  had  elapsed  since  his  last  visit,  and  he 
was  framing  his  apology  as  he  walked  his  horse  slowly  round  the 
pailing  of  the  Park,  and  was  near  the  Porter's  Lodge,  when  he 
was  aroused  by  the  sweet  notes  of  a  guitar,  issuing  from  the  Park. 
When  he  alighted,  as  he  gave  his  horse  to  the  porter,  he  inquired 
who  was  the  performer. 

"  'Tis  one  of  the  young  ladies  that  be  here  on  a  visit,"  said  the 
man.  "  I  thinks  they  do  call  her  Miss  Freeman  ;  but  our  young 
ladies  do  call  her  Maria — a  sweet  young  lady  she  is  too  !  she  do  a 
world  of  good  wherever  she  goes ; — old  and  young  do  pray  for 
blessings  on  her :  and  yet  I  be  hugely  out  in  my  reck'ning  and  she 
be'n't  very  unhappy  !" 

"  Why  do  you  think  so,  Wilmot?"  said  Barn  well,  who  was  in- 
terested at  his  account. 

"  Why,  your  honour,  she  be  so  mopish  and  lonesome,  and  do 
never  seem  to  make  merry  with  the  gentlefolks ;  but  walks,  and 
walks,  alone,  all  day  ;  and  then  she  do  sigh  mightily — and  be 
grown  so  pale ! — It  is  a  main  pity,  your  honour,  that  she,  who  do 
take  such  pains  to  make  every  body  happy,  should  not  be  happy 
herself!" 

"  Pity,  indeed  !"  replied  Barn  well,  who  encouraged  his  loquaci- 
ty, that  he  might  discover  if  any  thing  had  occurred  in  his  absence 
— for  old  Wilmot  had  the  talent  of  extracting  from  one  or  other  of 


104  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

the  domestics  the  whole  news  of  the  Pavilion.    One  of  the  grooms 
having  taken  his  horse,  he  followed  Wilmot  into  the  Lodge,  under 

pretence  of  admiring  his  grand-children "What  a  fine  fellow 

this!"  said  he,  patting  a  chubby-faced  little  boy  on  the  head : — 
"and  those  are  charming  little  girls !" 

"  I  do  thank  heaven,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  they  be  brave  and 
hearty." 

"  And  only  look,  an  please  your  honour,"  said  the  mother, 
"  what  beautiful  fine  dimity  coats,  and  what  lovely  fine  frocks  the 
dear  Miss  Freeman  has  made  for  them,  with  her  own  hands !" 

"  Ah  !"  resumed  the  old  man,  "  she  is  to  be  pitied,  sweet  lady  !" 

"  Yes,"  cried  his  daughter;  "  if  what  Mrs.  Watson,  my  lady's 
maid,  says,  be  true,  it  is  a  hard  case  for  such  a  beautiful  and  lovely 
charming  good  angel  to  be  crossed  in  love  ! — for  every  body  says  it 
is  love.  Lord,  I  declare  it  makes  one's  heart  ache  to  see  her  mo- 
ping about,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  grand  gentlefolks  are  riding 
out,  or  fishing,  or  dancing,  or  archering,  or " 

Just  as  she  was  speaking,  Maria,  ignorant  of  Barnwell's  arrival, 
strolled  into  the  Lodge.  Her  eyes  were  thrown  pensively  upon  the 
ground — her  guitar  hung  on  her  arm.  She  appeared  much 
changed  in  her  countenance,  and  sighed  deeply  still.  Barnwell 
could  not  behold  her  without  a  recollection  of  his  dream.  He  sat 
in  a  corner  of  the  little  room,  and  Maria,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  saw 
him 

"  Mr.  Barnwell  here!"  exclaimed  she,  with  a  momentary  blush 
that  suffused  her  pale  cheek.  The  surprise  appeared  to  have  over- 
come her,  and  she  trembled. 

"  I  am  admiring  Wilmot's  grand-children,"  said  Barnwell,  with 

some  hesitation. 1  have  been — that  is,  I  have  been — I  mean,  it 

is  a  considerable  time  since  I  have  been  here." 

"  How  is  the  poor  woman  at  Farmer  Jasper's?"  said  Maria  to 
old  Wilmot,  appearing  not  to  notice  the  too  evident  embarrassment 
of  Barnwell. 

"  Oh,  my  sweet  lady,  she  be  quite  another  guess  thing,  and  she 
do  talk  of  nothing  but  her  good  angel.  To-morrow  she  do  mean 
to  pay  you  her  respects,  and  return  thanks  for •" 

"  Nay,  nay,"  interrupted  she,  "  I  must  not  hear  you  talk  thus, 
good  Wilmot : — but  if  the  poor  woman  should  come  to-morrow,  de- 
tain her  here,  and  send  in  for  me.     I  charge  you  not  to  let  her  come 
into  the  house  ; — her  too  grateful  heart  would  pour  forth  effusions 
I  should  be  pained  to  hear  in  the  presence  of  others  — Good  even- 
ing,"— and  she  walked  out  of  the  Lodge.     Barnwell  followed  her. 
'  Permit  me  to  carry  that  instrument,"  said  he. 
'  No,  sir,"  replied  Maria,  coolly. 

'  You  seem  fatigued — will  you  honour  me  by   accepting  my 
arm  ? ' ' 

'  No,  sir,"  replied  she  again. 

'  Am  I  so  unfortunate,"  said  Barnwell,  "  as  to  have  incurred 


GEORGE      BARN  WELL.  105 

Miss  Freeman's  displeasure,  that  she  denies  me  the  pleasure  of 
rendering  her  assistance?" 

She  walked  on  in  silence.  Barnwell  was  really  concerned.  He 
esteemed  Maria  ere  he  felt  the  fervour  of  love,  and  valued  her  good 
opinion  too  highly  to  part  with  it  with  indifference.  They  reached 
the  house  without  exchanging  another  word. 

As  they  entered  the  saloon,  Miss  Emery  was  playing  a  serious 
air  of  Banti's  on  the  piano,  which  she  immediately  changed  for — 
"  See  the  conquering  h**ro  comes!1'  which  she  accompanied  with  her 
voice. — Mrs.  Emery,  Miss  Charlotte,  Lord  Morley,  and  Mr.  East- 
wood, were  present,  and  laughed  so  heartily,  that  they  could  not 
return  the  salutations  of  Barnwell,  or  listen  to  one  word  of  his 
apology.  As  soon  as  silence  returned,  Charlotte  opened  the  bat- 
tery of  raillery. 

•'Most  puissant  and  renowned  conqueror  of  hearts,  Colonel 
Commandant  of  the  Corps  of  Cupids !  Whose  head-quarters  are 
your  brilliant  eyes,  whose  artillery  is  your  smiles,  condescend  to 
accept  the  congratulations  of  the  meanest  of  your  captives,  upon 
your  safe  arrival,  after  so  long  and  painful  an  absence !" 

Barnwell  was  astonished. 

"  Sterling ! — sterling ! — upon  my  honour !"  cried  Mr.  Eastwood ; 
and  the  whole  party,  except  Maria,  joined  in  a  most  hearty  laugh. 

"  The  annals  of  Love  are  but  the  records  of  your  conquests," 
continued  Charlotte ;  "  and  wherever  we  turn  our  wondering 
eyes,  we  view  the  victims  of  your  charms  !" 

As  she  said  this,  she  fixed  her  eyes  significantly  upon  Maria, 
who  seemed  hurt  by  the  allusion,  fiarnwell  was  no  better  pleased. 
Regardless,  however,  of  the  pain  she  created,  so  long  as  Mr.  East- 
wood admired,  and  the  others  laughed,  she  continued — 

"  But  cease,  mighty  conqueror,  cease  this  havoc  among  beau- 
ties ;  deign  to  consider  the  misery  you  extend,  and  the  woes  you 
increase.  Let  the  languid  eyes,  the  pallid  cheeks,  the  painful 
sighs,  the  palpitating  hearts  of  those,  who  have  already  fallen,  suf- 
fice for  sacrifices  ;  check  the  cruel  career  of  conquest,  and  distribute 
the  consolation  of  your  presence  more  equitably  among  your  slaves  ! 
Forget  not,  that  while  the  cheering  beams  of  your  countenance  are 
dispensing  life  and  vigour  at  Brompton,  their  absence  is  fatal  in 
other  quarters !  Only  conceive  the  effects  to  the  earth  of  twelve 
days'  absence  of  the  sun,  and  emulate  in  justice,  as  you  do  in 
splendour,  the  equal  revolutions  of  that  glorious  orb !" 

Barnwell  was  petrified  with  astonishment  at  this  rhapsody.  He 
could  not  fail  to  understand  her  meaning,  but  was  lost  in  wonder 
how  his  visits  to  Brompton  could  have  reached  the  Pavilion. 

"  Come,  come,"  cried  Lord  Morley,  "  be  merciful,  Charlotte,  as 
you  are  powerful.  You  see  how  you  make  the  poor  youth  blush  !" 

Barnwell  was  really  embarrassed — "  Upon  my  word,"  cried  he, 
after  several  attempts,  "  you  are  very  entertaining  !" 

"Do  you  think  so?"  cried  Charlotte,  archly.  "Well,  then, 
now  I'll  be  serious — quite  in  right  arnest ;"  and  drawing  herself 


106  GEORGE     BARNWELL, 

stiffly  upright  in  her  chair,  with  her  thumbs  twirling  round  each 
other — "  If  you  please,  Mr.  Barnwell,  how  do  you  like  the  air  at 
Brompton  ?  I  hope  it  agrees  with  your  health." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon — I— really  don't  understand  you." 

"  Shall  I  explain  myself,  then,  sir,  before  the  whole  assembly  ; 
or  will  you  have  the  house  cleared,  and  strangers  excluded,  before 
I  rise  to  explain  ? — Be  quick,  sir,  in  your  choice  ;  for  I  perceive  I 
have  already  caught  the  Speaker's  eye." 

Maria  was  looking  earnestly  at  her  whilst  she  spoke.  Barnwell, 
beginning  to  apprehend  she  really  knew  more  than  she  had  yet 
hinted,  found  no  way  left  but  to  return  her  raillery,  however  se- 
verely he  felt  her  observations 

"  I  think  I  have  a  right  to  call  for  an  adjournment,"  said  he,  as 
your  proceedings  are  as  irregular  as  unjust.  You  should  certainly 
have  given  notice  of  the  measure  you  intended  to  bring  before  the 
house." 

"Guilty — guilty,  upon  my  honour,"  cried  Lord  Morley ;  "or 
he  would  never  have  evaded  a  trial  upon  a  point  of  form." 

"Well,"  cried  Barnwell,  "I  suppose  you  understand  one  an- 
other ;  but  it  is  all  cross  purposes  to  me." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  you  think  them  cross  enough,"  cried  Charlotte  ; 
"  but  if  people  will  set  themselves  up  for  Josephs,  and  one  should 
by  accident  discover  them  to  be  no  Josephs,  why,  the  consequence 

is What  ails  you,  child  ?"  breaking  off,  and  addressing  herself 

to  Maria,  who  complained  of  a  giddiness  in  her  head,  and  fainted. 

A  bustle  ensued,  during  which,  Barnwell,  finding  his  services 
useless,  retired  to  his  own  room. 

His  own  reflections  were  no  more  pleasing  than  the  railleriss  of 
Charlotte  Emery.  His  connexion  with  Milwood  was  evidently 
known  at  the  pavilion.  It  might  also  have  reached  the  ears  of  his 
mother  and  his  uncle.  Milwood  herself  was  grown,  if  possible, 
more  mysterious.  Her  expenses  increased  rapidly,  and  his  own 
finances  became  straitened,  notwithstanding  his  excellent  manage- 
ment previous  to  his  acquaintance  with  her. 

The  disdain  of  Maria,  too,  sat  not  easy  on  his  heart ;  he  knew 
her  to  be  as  amiable  in  mind  as  lovely  in  person  ;  and,  no  longer 
doubting  but  the  report  of  a  clandestine  connexion  had  lost  him 
her  esteem,  if  not  a  more  tender  regard,  he  most  bitterly  lamented 
the  fate,  that  prohibited  his  offering  any  explanation  in  justification 
of  his  conduct. 

The  long  intervals  between  the  broken  slumbers  of  the  night 
wero,  therefore,  occupied  in  a  train  of  thoughts,  neither  satisfacto- 
ry in  a  survey  of  the  past,  nor  in  a  contemplation  of  the  future. 
Regret  followed,  and  Fear  preceded  him. 

JNor  was  the  breast  of  Maria  tranquil.  Her  mind,  endowed  by 
nature  with  a  quick  susceptibility  of  tender  sentiments,  had  imbibed 
for  Barnwell  an  affection  fatal  to  bar  peace.  His  person  was 
handsome,  his  countenance  interesting;  but  those  exteriors  had  lit- 
tle influenced  the  thinking  Maria.  'Twos  the  native  elegance  of 


GEORGE     BARHWELL.  107 

his  manners,  the  integrity  and  generosity  of  his  sentiments,  and 
the  noble  tenor  of  his  conduct,  that  had  gained  him  so  honourable 
a  distinction  in  her  bosom.  This  distinction  had  increased  continu- 
ally by  a  comparison  with  the  young  men  who  visited  Mr.  Emery. 

Among  the  swarm  of  fashionable  flies  that  buzzed  perpetually 
about  her,  she  sought  in  vain  for  his  originality  of  mind,  his  purity 
of  thought.  One  was  conspicuous  for  his  disgusting  rudeness, 
practised  by  mistake  for  affability  ;  others,  for  an  equally  disgust- 
ing obsequiousness,  that  set  all  appreciation  of  their  minds  at  com- 
plete defiance :  this  entertained  her  with  the  history  of  the  thea- 
tres, and  retailed  the  scandal  of  venomous  tongues  to  the  prejudice 
of  the  performers  ;  whilst  others,  could  she  have  listened  to  them, 
would  have  taught  her  the  whole  art  of  farriery,  and  stored  her 
mind  with  the  true  principles  of  nicking,  docking,  cropping,  and 
training  horses. 

But  when  opportunity  favoured  her  with  the  society  of  Barnwell, 
her  mind  expanded  in  the  pursuit  of  his  ideas ;  her  heart  glowed  at 
the  congenial  effusions  of  his ;  and  she  felt  at  once  delighted  and 
improved.  Such  a  distinguishing  esteem  naturally,  though  imper- 
ceptibly, softened  into  love  ;  and  Maria  was  surprised  at  her  own 
situation  when  she  first  discovered  how  necessary  was  the  presence 
of  Barnwell  to  the  satisfaction  of  her  heart. 

This  discovery  she  made,  when,  day  after  day,  he  absented  him- 
self for  above  a  week  from  the  Pavilion  ;  which,  all  gayety  as  it 
was,  appeared  in  the  estimation  of  Maria  the  very  temple  of  Dul- 
ness,  without  the  society  of  Barnwell.  But  if  a  doubt  was  left  on 
her  mind  respecting  the  state  of  her  heart,  it  vanished  at  the  pain, 
the  most  exquisite  pain,  she  endured,  when,  through  the  tattle  of 
servants,  (which  Barnwell  never  suspected,)  his  nightly  visits  to 
Brompton  were  made  known  at  the  Pavilion. 

Then  did  the  bosom  of  Maria  swell  with  anguish,  unfelt  before. 
She  doubted,  she  scrupled  to  believe,  that  Barnwell  would  be  guilty 
of  intrigue,  and  yet  there  was  no  way  of  acquitting  him,  but  by 
supposing  he  had  entered  into  more  solemn,  and  lasting  engage- 
ments. Either  supposition  wounded  her  heart.  She  grew  melan- 
choly and  thoughtful  ;  and  the  struggle  of  her  reason  and  her  love 
sapped  the  foundation  of  her  health. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  Maria,  when  the  behaviour  of  Barn- 
well  in  the  saloon  confirmed  her  in  the  opinion  that,  if  ever  he  had 
been  worthy  of  her  esteem,  he  had  now  relinquished  that  claim. 
The  anguish  such  conviction  occasioned  her,  was  too  powerful  for 
her  delicate  mind,  and  was  the  cause  of  her  fainting. 

With  Maria,  therefore,  as  well  as  with  Barnwell,  the  night 
passed  heavily  on  ;  and  when  the  glorious  orb  of  day  chased  dark- 
ness from  the  earth,  neither  Barnwell  nor  Maria  could  hail,  with  a 
tranquil  breast,  those  gladdening  beams,  that  heretofore  had  kindled 
in  their  hearts  the  glow  of  grateful  joy. 

5* 


108  GEORGE     BARNWELt. 


CHAPTER    X  XT  I II, 

Virtuous  and  vicious  every  man  must  be, 

Few  in  the  extreme,  but  all  in  the  degree  i 

The  rogue  and  fool,  by  fits,  is  fair  and  wise, 

And  ev'n  the  best,  by  fits,  what  they  despise. — POPE. 

A  POSTCHAISE  and  four  was  at  the  door  when  Barnwell  arrived, 
the  following  morning,  at  Portland  Place.  Mr.  Emery  had  just 
returned  from  Buxton.  He  immediately  paid  his  respects  to  him 
in  the  library. — 

"  So,  Barnwell !"  said  Mr.  Emery,  as  he  walked  hastily  about 
the  room  : — his  eyes  were  red  and  swelled — his  aspect  lowering — 
his  brows  knitted — not  one  trace  was  left  in  his  countenance  of  his 
former  ease  and  gayety. 

Barnwell  was  hesitating  whether  totetire  or  remain  ;  when  Mr. 
Emery,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head,  exclaimed, 

"  What  an  infernal  crew ! — What  devils  upon  earth  ! — Blood- 
suckers thatrfeed  upon  the  vitals  of  their  fellows  ! — Curse  them  ! — 

curse  them  !"  Then  turning  suddenly  round "  What  are  you 

staring  at?"  cried  he  to  Barnwell. — "  Did  I  send  for  you?  Go — 
Stay Where's  my  wifel" 

"At  the  Pavilion,  sir." 

"Pavilion!  Ha— ha— ha  ! '  'Twas  mine,  'tis  his,  and  has 

been  slave  to  thousands !'  ' 

There  was  a  wildness,  approaching  to  madness,  in  the  manner 
and  words  of  Mr.  Emery,  that  struck  Barnwell  with  surprise  and 
horror  ;  yet,  ignorant  of  the  cause,  he  was  unable  to  offer  consola- 
tion to  his  despair,  had  his  situation  allowed  him  the  privilege. 
After  two  or  three  paces  round  the  room — "  Write  me  a  note," 
cried  Mr.  Emery,  with  a  quickness  that  startled  him.  Barnwell 
listened  to  his  indicting — 

"  Mr.  Emery  will  esteem  himself  highly  obliged,  if  Mr.  Nego- 
tiate will  call  in  Portland  Place,  as  early  this  morning  as  possible." 

"  Take  this  note  yourself: — see  Negotiate,  and  know  the  exact 
minute  he  will  be  here." 

Barnwell  obeyed  his  orders  with  promptness,  and  returned  with 
intelligence,  that  Mr.  Negotiate  was  just  stepping  into  his  chariot, 
to  fulfil  an  appointment  at  the  Treasury,  and  would  wait  on  Mr. 
Emery  as  he  returned. 

Mr.  Negotiate  was  a  money-broker  ;  a  man  supposed  to  be  im- 
mensely rich  ;  who,  from  the  facility  with  which  he  could  convert 
remote  securities  into  ready  cash,  was  a  necessary  confidant  of  the 
needy,  both  at  Court  and  'Change.  He  was  a  little,  thin  man,  and 
always  seemed  ready  to  sink  beneath  the  weight  of  Exchequer 
bills,  scrip  receipts,  and  money  bonds,  with  which  his  pockets  were 
continually  loaded.  He  was  pompous  and  proud  to  those  who 
wanted  his  assistance  ;  obsequious  and  meanly  submissive  where 
he  wanted  assistance. 


GEORGE      B  A  UNWELL.  109 

About  one  he  arrived.  Barnwell  was  withdrawing  when  he 
entered  the  library — " Stay;"  said  Mr.  Emery,  "  we  must  have  a 
witness;  and  you,  who  already  half  know  my  embarrassments, 
may  as  well  know  the  whole." 

"There,  now,"  cried  Negotiate,  who  was  a  Jew,  "I  ras 
thought  as  much.— Embarrashment,  embanashment ! — Every  body 
do  cry  out  that  tune,  Embarrashment.  Public  affairs— Private 
affairs— Great  men's  affairs — Marchants'  affairs— Bankers'  affairs — 
Tradesfolks'  affairs — all  vas  embarrashment !  Veil,  veil— vat  vas 
I  to  do  with  it.  I  vender  vat  peoples  takes  me  for!  There  is  the 
Minishtry— and  there  is  the  Upholsterer— all  come  to  Mishter 
Negotiate.  Marcy  on  me  ! — they  vorry  me  to  death !  And  pray, 
now,  Mishter  Emery,  vat  vill- relieve  your  embarrashment?" 

"  Why,  for  the  present,"  said  Mr.  Emery,  "  six  thousand  wil'. 
do." 

"Got  Almighty!  Vere  vas  you  think  I  can  scrape  so  much 
money  ?  'Tish  impossible  !  Good  morning,  Mishter  Emery — 
Good  morning — You  must  inquire  furder.  But  I  vill  tell  you  one 
thing — your  friend,  the  earl,  is  as  embarrash  as  you.  Here!  see, 
Exchequer  bills — Exchequer  bills and  the  market !" 

"D the  market!"  cried  Emery,  furiously:  "I  must — I 

will  have  the  money!" 

"  Marcy  on  us,  how  varm  you  grow  !  Be  quiet!  he  easy !  be 
calm!" 

Negotiate  always  made  it  a  point  to  refuse  in  the  first  instance, 
that,  by  the  effects  of  disappointment  upon  his  victim,  he  might 
judge  of  their  emergency,  and  offer  terms  accordingly.  After  a 
variety  of  difficulties  were,  at  length,  despatched,  he  advanced  the 
sum  required,  upon  the  security  of  the  estate  at  the  Pavilion,  at  an 
enormous  premium,  and  on  a  bond  to  reimburse  stock  to  the  amount 
sold  out,  be  the  price  at  its  expiration  ever  so  disproportionate. 

This  transaction  opened  a  new  scene  to  Barnwell,  and  filled  his 
mind  with  the  most  serious  reflections,  in  which  the  peril  of  his 
own  situation  was  not  forgotten.  Every  hour  it  grew  more  dan- 
gerous. A  clandestine  connexion  with  a  person,  of  whose  family 
or  friends  he  could  procure  no  sort  of  intelligence,  whose  story  was 
mysterious,  and  in  several  points  contradictory,  sat  not  easy  at  his 
heart.  The  following  letter,  from  his  sister  Eliza,  by  no  means 
lessened  his  regrets. 

LETTER. 

"  There  is  something  wrong,  my  dear  brother;  you  are  unhappy,  and  you  have  ren- 
dered us  so  too!  What  a  letter  was  your  last 'Engagements  of  various  kinds'.— 

Particular  circumstances! — Want  of  time!' — What  excuses  are  these  from  one,  who 
had  used  to  delight  in  recounting  every  little  incident  that  might  entertain  ;  every 
thought  that  misht  improve  his  sister !  Did  I  fancy  it,  or  was  your  hand,  indeed,  un- 
steady while  you  wrote  !  Oh.  George,  you  are  a  sorry  actor  !  In  vain  you  aim  to  fit 
a  maok  upon  your  foul :  it  spurns  it.  and  will  burst  the  fetters  of  deception.  It  must 
not  lie  concealed,  that  we  concluded,  from  the  incoherences,  the  contradictions  of  your 
letters,  th-it  somuthingis  wrong;  and  the  anxiety  as  to  the  nature  of  the  evil  is  greater, 
beyond  comparison,  than  a  certain  knowledge  of  it,  be  it  what  it  may.  Leave  us  no 
longer,  then,  in  the  purgatory  of  conjecture.  '  Engagements  '  you  speak  of.  It  wa> 


110  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

your  custom  to  describe  to  us  the  events  of  every  day.  What  then  is  the  nature  of 
those  engagements  you  keep  back  from  our  knowledge  ?  Your  situation  must  be 
changed,  indeed,  if  press  of  business  has  so  quickly  succeeded  a  leitttre.  of  which  you 
formerly  complained  I  Ah,  George,  that  leisure,  in  such  a  place  as  London,  ever  oc- 
casioned our  dear  parent  some  concern  for  you.  But  when  we  found  ft  devoted  to  the 
improvement  of  mind,  to  tlie  elegant  pursuits  of  literature,  and  particularly  when 
spontaneously  you  devoted  so  large  a  portion  of  it  to  a  correspondence,  that  brought 
us,  as  it  were,  daily  into  each  other's  presence,  her  heart  glowed  with  gratitude  to  the 
memory  of  him,  who  is  now  no  more,  as  she  hailed  with  joy  the  sweet  blossoms  of  his 
early  cultivation. 

"  Shall  we  then  be  deceived  at  last !  Say,  my  brother,  were  those  blossoms  so  ten- 
der, that  Temptation's  tempest  can  have  blighted  themT  Forgive  the  thought  !  It 
cannot — cannot  be  !  It  may  have  checked  them:  it  cannot  have  destroyed  them. 
Some  indescretion  has,  for  a  while,  shed  its  sombre  influence  over  a  mind  that  cannot 
be  at  once  in  error  and  at  ease.  Is  it  so,  my  dear  brother  ?  I  have  a  right  to  presume 
it  is.  from  your  conduct ;  for  on  no  other  ground  can  I  define  it.  And  if  it  should  be 
to,  what  have  we  ever  done,  that  our  hearts  are  denied  Iheir  just  right  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  your  imperfections?  How  often  have  the  imperfections  of  human  nature 
been  our  theme  !  How  often  have  we  pitied  the  poor  disciples  of  modern  philosophy, 
who  boast  the  reverse.  We  have  heard  persons  declare,  that  they  have  never  re- 
pented of  on?  act  of  their  lives,  and  we  have  smiled.  It  must  be  false  shame,  or  false 
fear,  then,  that  has  betrayed  my  dear  brother  into  the  concealment  of  his  errors. 

"Perhaps  you  may  imagine  that  to  acquaint  us  with  them  would  occasion  us  pain ; 
and  that  what  we  do  not  know  we  cannot  rezret.  Fatal  delusion  !  How  many  wrecks 
of  promised  happiness  has  that  rock  occasioned!  Most,  who  approach  it.  perish. 
Examine  this  specious  suggestion  of  Pride — It  is  no  more.  We  are  unwilling  to  de- 
scend in  the  esteem  of  those  we  love,  and  we  conceal  from  their  knowledge  indiscre- 
tions, which  we  imagine  would  have  that  effect;  forgetting  that,  by  the  very  conceal- 
ment, we  practise  a  crime,  instead  of  committing  an  error;  and  are  guilty  of  the 
meanest  hypocrisy,  in  passing  ourselves  upon  our  friends  for  such  miracfes  of  perfec- 
tion, as  make  a  comparison  with  their  own  experience  painful.  Besides  the  mean- 
ness of  this  deception,  it  will  be  found  impolitic.  It  is  the  unvarying  law  of  nature, 
that  all  causes  pro<lure  effects.  Indiscretion,  then,  must  have  its  consequences.  And 
bow  frequently  is  it  seen,  that  the  consequences  declare  the  indiscretion  to  those, 
from  whom  we  have  sought  to  conceal  it !  and  then  how  contemptible  do  we  appear, 
from  the  very  act,  which  we  vainly  imagined  the  prop  of  our  characters  ! 

"Pardon  me,  dear  Georse,  in  thus  reminding  you  of  truths  gathered  from  yourself; 
and  believe  me,  that  my  heart  would  not  have  rested  satisfied,  had  I  said  less.  Anx- 
ious will  pass  the  moments  till  we  hear  from  you  ;  and  if  you  are  not  indeed  angry  and 
offended  at  an  officionsness.  of  which  the  tenderest  love,  and  dearest  interest,  are  the 
parents,  you  will  not  hesitate  to  repose  in  a  mother's  and  sister's  breasts  the  distresses 
or  perplexities  of  your  own. 

"  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe,  that  our  benevolent  uncle  has  remarked  your 
silence.  But,  be  assured,  our  correspondence  at  present  is  confined  to  those,  who  only 
probe  a  wound,  they  persuade  themselves  you  have  received,  that  they  may  with  more 
effect  administer  to  its  cure.  I  am  commanded  to  remit  you  the  blessing  of  your 
mother,  and  with  that  nnite  the  warm  and  sincere  affection  of  your  sister.  E.  B." 

The  heart  of  Barnwell  suffered  the  severest  conflicts  from  the 
perusal  of  this  letter.  The  fallacious  arguments  of  Mil  wood,  re- 
specting the  propriety  of  concealment,  were  answered,  as  com- 
pletely as  if  he  had  expressed  them  to  his  sister.  His  mind  was 
clearly  convinced  of  the  folly,  as  well  as  guilt,  of  any  further  se- 
crecy ;  and  he  once  more  determined  to  acquaint  Mil  wood  that  he 
could  no  longer  submit  to  a  clandestine  connexion. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  HI 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

Oh,  beware,  my  Lord,  of  jealousy  ; 

It  is  a  jreen-eyod  monster,  which  doth  mock 

The  meat  it  feeds  on 

But,  oh  !  what  damned  minutes  tells  he  O'er, 

Who  doats,  yet  doubts — suspects,  yet  strongly  loves? — SHAKSPERE. 

THUS  determined  to  rend  the  veil,  which  screened  the  situation 
of  his  heart  from  those  to  whom  its  most  secret  thoughts  had  been 
ever  open,  Barnwell  again  bent  his  footsteps  towards  Brompton. 

As  he  entered  the  house,  Mrs.  Griffiths,  the  landlady,  accosted 
him,  and  requested  he  would  walk  into  her  parlour,  as  she  had 
something  of  consequence  to  say  to  him.  Barnwell  was  by  no 
means  in  a  humour  patiently  to  listen  to  the  harangue  with  which 
the  widow  had  prepared  to  amuse  him,  yet  his  politeness  prevented 
a  refusal. 

Mrs.  Griffiths  had,  about  five  months  since,  decently  interred  the 
poor  d".ar  soul,  her  second  husband,  who  had  been  pastor  of  a  dis- 
senting congregation.  The  relics  of  her  two  husband's  effects,  and 
an  annuity  of  twenty  pounds  a  year,  allowed  her  by  the  church  to 
which  Mr.  Griffiths  had  administered,  afforded  her  the  means  of 
living  decently,  with  the  help  of  letting  lodgings.  Having  seated 
herself  in  her  elbow  chair,  smoothed  her  apron,  and  taken  a  comfort- 
able pinch  of  snuff— 

"  It  doesn't  become  me,  Mr.  Barnwell,  to  pry  into  other  folks' 
matters,  no  more  than  what  I  have  a  right,  and  that  my  duty  calls 
upon  me  to  do.  I  am  left,  as  I  may  say,  to  my  own  look  out,  and 
to  do  for  myself;  for  as  to  depending  upon  others,  1  sees  the  fool- 
ishness of  that  every  day.  My  last  poor  saint  was  too  good  for 
this  world  a  deal :  he  spent  his  breath  and  his  spirits  for  other  peo- 
ple's good,  and  did  it,  as  he  said,  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  was 
always  for  relying  upon  their  gratitude  for  my  future  support. 
You  must  know,  Mr.  Barnwell,  that  my  first  husband  drove  the 
Lord  Mayor  of  London  in  his  state  coach,  in  the  year  seventy-six, 
and  saved  something  pretty,  I  assure  you,  besides  getting  his  free- 
dom. I  mought  have  done  better,  to  be  sure  ; — but  what  is  to  be 
trill  fir. — We  were  married,  sir,  and  did  very  well  for  some  ye?rs, 
in  a  house,  though  I  say  it,  that  drawed  as  good  a  butt  of  beer  a 
week  as  ever  came  out  of  Whitbread's  store,  besides  compounds 
and  cordials  in  proportion.  But  he,  poor  man,  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  one  and  another  ;  and  at  last,  by  drinking  too  freely, 
I  must  own,  brought  on  a  dropsey,  and  went  off  like  the  snuff  of  a 
candle,  though  as  fine  a  man  at  one  time  as  ever  you  dapped  your 
eyes  on.  Well,  sir,  there  was  I  left  a  widow,  and  had  every  thing 
to  manage,  and  to  do.  But,  as  I  said  before,  what  is  to  be  will  be; 
and,"  lifting  up  her  hands,  "  so  it  will !" 

"It  will  indeed!''  said  Barnwell,  scarcely  able  to  refrain  a 
smile. 

"  Ah  !  sir,"  continued  the  widow,  "  who  would  have  thought, 


112  GEORGE     BARNWELt. 

When  Mr.  Griffiths  came  to  measure  my  poor  first  husband  for  his 
coffin,  that  he  was  to  conduct  me  the  second  time  to  the  Halter  of 
Imond!  But  so  it  was.  He  was  then  'prentice  to  an  undertaker, 
and  not  more  than  nineteen  ;  but  he  had  such  a  tongue  ! — It  was  as 
good  as  a  cordial  to  hear  him  talk.  I  am  sure  I  may  say  it  wasn't 
his  person  that  gained  my  heart,  for  he  was  very  tall,  and  very 
thin ;  his  face  was  as  pale  as  a  tallow  candle;  his  eyes  large,  but 
sunk,  and  his  cheeks  hollow.  But  I  soon  larnt  that  he  was  dissat- 
isfied with  his  sittyashon,  and  had  a  turn  for  laming.  To  make 
short,  sir,  I  pitied  the  poor  young  fellow  ;  and  he  used  to  come 
now  and  then,  of  a  Sunday,  and  dine  ;  and  then  he  would  read 
books,  and  make  out  such  meanings  from  the  Scriptures,  as  no- 
body else,  but  a  great  genus,  would  think  of.  At  last  he  prevailed 
upon  me  to  believe,  that  keeping  the  sign  of  the  Goat  was  a  sinful 
way  of  life;  and,  turning  what  I  had  into  money,  I  entered  the 
holy  state  once  more,  and  we  lived  at  a  little  place  a  few  miles 
from  London.  Here  he  got  acquainted  with  some  people  that  be- 
longed to  the  meeting,  and  they  made  him  their  parson.  I  saw 
then  how  it  would  turn  out. '  What  does  it  signify,  Mr.  Grif- 
fiths,' said  I,  '  your  tearing  your  lungs  to  pieces,  four  times  a  day, 
in  this  manner,  to  people  who  v/on't  give  a  bit  of  bread  to  your 
poor  Dolly,  when  you  have  got  your  death  by  them?'  and  so,  sure 
enough,  it  was.  He  preached  himself  into  the  galloping  consump- 
tion ;  father  drinked  himself  into  a  dropsey  ;  and  now  they  are 
gone — and  here  am  /left  to  my  own  look  out!" — 

The  patience  of  Barnwell  was,  by  this  time  completely  ex- 
hausted ;  and  he  was  rising  to  depart,  when  Mrs.  Griffiths  prevent- 
ed him. 

,  "  But,  now,  sir,  I  comes  to  what  I  was  going  to  remark  to  you. 
You  see  how  I  am  sittyated :  and  that  I  am  not  able  to  afford  to 
lose  by  my  lodgers.  To  be  sure,  the  church  does  allow  me  a  pal- 
try twenty  pounds  a  year ;  but  that's  no  dependence,  as  I  don't  go 
to  their  place,  and,  indeed,  don't  much  like  their  prayers  without 
books,  where  one  don't  know  what  they're  a  going  to  say.  Be- 
sides, if  I  should  alter  my  condition  again,  which  there's  no  telling, 
I  dare  say  they'd  take  it  off  and  so,  what  I  say  is — it's  my  own 
look  out  I  must  depend  on  ;  and  I  can't  afford  to  lose." — 

"  I  don't  understand,  madam,  what  all  this  leads  to,"  cried 
Barnwell,  interrupting  her.  "You  are  very  regularly  paid,  and 
well  paid." 

"  As  to  that,  two  guineas  a  week  for  what  this  Mrs.  God-knows- 
who  has,  it's  little  enough." 

"More  respect,  if  you  please,  when  you  mention  that  lady!" 

"  I  doesn't  mean  to  affront  you,  sir ;  but  I  must  look  after  my 
own.  To  ba  sure,  you  have  paid  regular  enough  as  yet ;  and  so 
did  the  gentleman,  at  first,  that  I  lost " 

"  Mrs.  Griffiths,"  said  Barnwell,  extremely  vexed,  and  taking 
his  hat  in  his  hand — "  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  that  concerns 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  113 

me,  pray  say  it  at  once  :  but  if  you  are  going  to  begin  any  more 
stories,  you  must  excuse  me." 

"  Why  then,  sir,  if  you  are  for  being  so  blunt — pray,  who  are 
you  and  what  are  you?  When  you  took  my  lodgings,  it  was  all 
in  a  hurry,  as  I  may  say,  and  I  went  upon  your  appearance  :  but  it 
is  my  wish  now  to  have  a  proper  reference  for  your  character.  I 
have  particular  reasons  for  it !" 

Barn  well  started  involuntarily,  and  blushed— "  What  rea- 
sons ?"  exclaimed  he. 

"  Nay,  for  what  I  know,  you  may  have  your  enemies!" 

"  Explain,  madam— I  insist  upon  it.  I  am  naturally  warm  and 
hasty  in  my  disposition  ;  and  I  hate  all  this  preface." 

"  Why  then,  sir,  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  business." 

"  As  briefly  as  you  can,"  cried  Barnwell. 

She  then  related  that — "  this  morning,  as  she  was  sitting  at  the 
window,  she  noticed  an  old  gentleman,  plainly  dressed,  who 
walked  three  or  four  times  past  the  house  with  particular  observa- 
tion. At  length  he  bowed  to  her,  and  knocked  at  the  door.  Upon 
being  shown  into  the  parlour,  he  bluntly  asked  her,  if  she  let  lodg- 
ings ;  and  then  as  abruptly  desired  to  know  the  name  of  her  pre- 
sent tenants.  When  she  informed  him,  Barnwell — he  exclaimed 
— '  Then  I  am  right.  Is  the  lady  within  who  accompanied  Mr. 
Barnwell  here!' — Upon  finding  he  knew  the  circumstance,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Griffiths,  "  I  answered,  Yes.  He  then  desired  to  see 
her.  I  went  up  stairs,  and  told  the  lady  ;  but  she  refused  to  see 
him  unless  he  came  with  any  message  from  yourself.  The  old 
gentleman  was  too  scrupulous  to  tell  a  story  ;  but  sent  up  word — 
He  did  not  come  with  your  knowledge,  but  that  he  came  as  your 
friend ;  and  only  wished  to  intrude  upon  her  time  five  minutes. 
But  she  positively  refused  him.  '  This  looks  ill  !'  said  the  old 
gentleman  ;  and  he  sat  talking  to  himself  a  good  while. — '  I  should 
like  to  see  this  lady,'  said  he,  '  even  if  I  did  not  speak  to  her. 
Could  you  manage  this  for  me?'  I  told  him,  that  she  generally 
walked  in  the  garden  in  the  course  of  the  morning  ;  and  that,  if  he 
pleased,  he  might  stop,  and  see  her  pass  the  windows  of  the  back 
parlour.  He  did  so  ;  and  we  talked  of  you,  sir.  He  acquainted 
me,  that  this  lady  was  one  of  those  despicable  hussies,  that  ought, 
in  my  opinion,  to  be  burnt  alive  ;  and  that  you  was  going  to  ruin 
headlong  ;  and  that  it  was  ten  to  one  if  you  was  able  to  pay  me, 
for  that  you  was  only  a  merchant's  clerk." 

"He  told  you  this? — He  say  this  of  me? — Impossible!"  cried 
Barnwell ;  for  he  instantly  concluded  it  could  be  no  other  than 
Mental. 

"  Yes,  but  he  did  ;  and  much  more  he  would  have  said,  had  not 
the  lady  just  then  passed  the  window.  She  turned  round  to  pluck 
a  flower,  and  so  he  had  a  full  view  of  her  face.  Starting  up  like 
a  madman,  as  soon  as  he  saw  it,  he  clasped  his  hands  together,  and, 
striking  his  forehead,  rushed  out  of  the  house  before  I  was  aware." 
"  This  is  all  very  extraordinary,"  cried  Barnwell — "  very  extra- 


114  REDUCE     BARN  WELL 

ordinary,  indeed  ! Pray,  have  you  acquainted  the  lady  with  this 

circumstance  ?" 

"  No,  not  I,  sir.  The  lady,  as  you  call  her,  must  find  more 
suitable  companions  ;  and  you,  if  you  please,  a  more  proper  place 
to  keep  her  in." 

Barnwell  at  once  disgusted,  vexed,  and  surprised,  left  her  with- 
out a  word,  and  sought  Milvvood.  She  met  him  as  he  entered  the 
room — 

"  Why,  my  dear  Barnwell,  is  your  brow  thus  constantly  clouded?" 

He  answered  not,  but  throwing-  himself  on  the  sofa 

"  I  shall  never  be  happy  again,"  murmured  he,  "  Oh!  Mil- 
wood,  what  a  wretch  have  you  made  me  !  I  was  basking  in  bliss 
— I  knew  not  a  painful  reflection — and  now,  I  can  neither  consult 

my  friends,  nor  my  own  heart 1  have  grown  despicable  in  the 

estimation  of  both ! — You  have  destroyed  my  tranquillity  forever  !" 

"  From  you  this  language,  Barnwell ! — From  you,  for  whom  I 
have  sacrificed  not  only  friends,  but  fortune — nay,  for  whom  I  have 
sacrificed  the  delicacy  of  my  sex — and  have  incurred  a  shame 

never  to  be  effaced  ! Who  is  most  the  sufferer,  Barnwell — you, 

who  have  shared  equally  in  all  the  pleasures  of  our  connexion,  and, 
in  the  world's  opinion,  have  obtained  a  triumph — or  I,  who,  for  my 
portion  of  rapturous  moments  have  to  encounter  the  evils  of  years 

unborn? Yet  will  I  never  repine — —I,  who  am  a  woman,  will 

yet  be  a  philosopher  enough  not  to  lament  the  price  of  my  pleasure! 
— No,  my  Barnwell,"  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck — "  no  ! — 

though  existence  was  that  price? What,  then,  can  you  repine 

at?" 

"  At  the  mystery  which  encircles  her  I  love!"  said  Barnwell ; 
— "  at  the  necessity  of  secrecy,  which  I  abhor  !  Milwood,  I  feel 

about  my  heart  the  weight  of  a  crime  ! Never  shall  I  feel  one 

happy  moment  till  I  can  introduce  you  to  my  friends — solicit  their 
forgiveness — and  regain  their  esteem.  Let  me,  then,  hasten  the 
return  of  happiness  to  us  both,  by  the  only  means  that  are  left  us." 

"  I  understand  you  Barnwell — I  perfectly  understand  you  ;  and 
would  to  God  that  obstacles,  insurmountable  obstacles,  did  not 
prevent  our  adoption  of  those  means.  But,  once  for  all — know, 
that  the  step,  to  which  you  allude,  is quite  impossible." 

"  Impossible  ! Milwood, do  I  hear  you  rightly — Impossible?" 

Milwood  wept,  and  sighed. 

"Tell  me,  most  mysterious  woman,  and,  by  one  word,  forever 
seal  my  doom Are  you  already  married?" 

Milwood  remained  silent. 

"  Nay,  answer  me,  I  beseech  you,"  continued  Barnwell.  "  The 
certainty  that  it  is  so  cannot  be  more  tormenting  than  this  suspense. 
Tell  me,  then,  at  once,  how  guilty,  and  how  miserable  a  wretch  I 
am." 

"  Oh,  Barnwell ! — thy  cruel  penetration  has  wounded  my  soul ! 

1  am nay,  start  not,  fly  not  from  mo 1  am already 

married  !" 


GEORGB      BARNWELL.  115 

Barnwell,  in  an  agony,  burst  from  her  arras,  and  rushed  toward 
the  door.  He  had  seized  the  handle  of  the  lock,  when,  with  a 
shriek,  Milwood  fainted  on  the  sofa.  His  tenderness  returned  in 
an  instant,  as  he  saw  her  beauteous  person  extended  lifeless  on  the 
sofa.  He  rang  the  bell  violently  ;  Mrs.  Griffiths  and  her  servant 
came  up,  and  he  assisted  them  in  their  services.  Half  opening  her 
eyes,  the  artful  Milwood  observed  his  attentions 

"  He  has  left  me — he  is  gone — he  is  gone  forever  !"  exclaimed 
she.  Then  appearing  to  recover,  and  starting  at  the  sight  of  him, 
she  caught  his  hand,  and  kissing  it  rapturously — "  Oh,  this  is  god- 
like, indeed  !"  said  she. 

Barnwell,  finding  she  recovered,  dismissed  the  landlady  and  her 
servant,  and  tenderly  supported  her'  in  his  own  arms.  He  could 
not,  however,  so  far  disguise  his  feelings,  as  to  appear  otherwise 
than  offended. 

"Ah!  why  was  this  cruelty  exerted!"  said  she — "  why  have 
you  saved  me  from  death,  if  thus  you  gaze  on  me  ! — Never  !  never 
can  I  bear  those  reproving  eyes  ! — Never  can  I  support  your  anger, 
Barnwell.  This  scornful  silence  too  !  The  bitter  reproaches  were 
kinder  than  this  cold  silence,  Barnwell  !" 

"  What  can  I  say  to  thee,  thou  dangerous  woman? You, 

Milwood,  may  deem  adultery  no  crime  ;  but  I " 

"  You,  Barnwell,  are  no  adulterer — you  are  innocent 1,  in- 
deed, am  guilty  ! But  the  love  I  cherish  for  you  is  all  my  heart 

approves. Compelled  me  to  marry  another,  I  have  vowed  at 

the  altar  to  be  his ;  but  never  have  those  vows  been  sanctioned  by 
my  heart — they  were  tortured  from  my  lips — but  never  has  my  per- 
son yielded  to  such  legalized  pollution.  From  that  memorable  day 
I  became  a  fugitive,  and  only  approached  the  altar  with  that  view. 
A  prisoner,  in  the  strictest  sense,  I  had  no  other  alternative,  than 
to  yield  my  hand  to  a  loathed  bridegroom,  whom,  from  that  hour 
to  this,  I  never  have  beheld." — Barnwell  sat  silently  musing  on 
the  sofa  ;  his  hands  were  folded  in  each  other,  and  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  floor. 

"  Still  you  are  silent,  Barnwell.  I  see  the  rising  scorn  that  sits 
upon  your  lips  ;  I  know  the  innate  delicacy  of  your  pure  mind  re- 
volts at  the  desperate  actions  of  a  phrensy-stricken  woman,  whom 
cruel  tyranny  and  unbounded  love  unite  to  plunge  into  despair.  I 
will  not  aim  to  lessen  your  disgust :  it  is  the  only  remedy  for  my 
ill-fated  passion.  Go,  then,  too  lovely  youth  ;  go,  and  forget  for- 
ever the  lost — lost  Milwood! — Go,  and  in  some  other's  arms,  be 
blest ;  while  I,  in  a  lone  corner  of  the  earth,  mourn  o'er  thy  mem- 
ory, and  bless  thy  name." 

"Yes.  madam,"  cried  Barnwell,  starting  from  his  reverie 

"  I  perceive  no  other  mode  of  action  :  there  appears  one  only  out- 
let from  this  sea  of  guilty  pleasures ; — where,  longer  to  remain, 
must  be  destruction !" 

"  I  know  your  dreadful  meaning,  sir ;  'Tis  cruel,  but  'tis  neces- 
sary. We  must  part ;  and,  since  I  have  become  so  loathsome  to 


116  GEORGE      BARSWELL. 

your  sight,  the  rudest  deserts  will  be  preferable  to  your  presence. 
No — I  could  never  stay  to  be  despised  by  you !" 

Here  the  siren  shed  a  flood  of  artificial  tears,  that  tortured 
Barnwell  to  the  very  soul.  The  extreme  sensibility  of  his  nature 
subjected  him  to  extremes  in  sentiment ;  now,  most  tenderly  he 
pitied  the  miseries  of  Milwood  ;  then,  the  memory  of  his  family 
rushed  across  his  mind — he  saw  their  indignant  frowns,  he  heard 
their  rebukes,  for  a  conduct  so  unworthy  of  them,  and  of  himself. 
Again,  when  he  reflected  on  the  dreaful  fate  of  her,  who  had 
abandoned  so  much  for  his  sake,  he  was  ready  to  extend  his  hand, 
and  vow  eternal  truth.  Again,  the  taunts  of  the  world,  the  re- 
venge of  an  injured  husband,  and  the  ignominy  to  himself  and 
friends,  of  a  public  accusation,  checked  the  softness  quivering  on 
his  lips,  which  only  escaped  by  a  painful  sigh 

In  this  conflict  of  his  mind,  memory  placed  before  him  the  vision 
he  had  seen  in  his  sleep  :  he  felt  the  allusion  of  the  scene  most 
strongly  ;  the  very  countenance  of  his  father  was  present,  and 
summoned  a  resolution  in  his  breast,  that  conquered  every  opposi- 
tion. Approaching  the  sofa  with  tremulous  voice 

"  Painful  to  me,  Milwood,  are  those  tears  ;  but,  after  the  know- 
ledge I  have  obtained  of  your  situation,  to  continue  a  connec- 
tion  " 

"  I  know  it  must  not  te,"  interrupted  she  : — "  I  know  the  jaun- 
diced eye  of  prejudice  views  it  in  all  the  hideous  colourings  of  vice ! 

I  ask  it  not,  my  Barnwell heart-breaking  is  the  sacrifice ;  but 

to  your  peace  of  mind  I  will  surrender  even  yourself!  Yet,  do  not 
add  to  the  horrors  of  such  a  separation,  by  inflicting  the  misery  of 
thinking  that  I  am  despised  by  you.  Say  that  you  do  not  hate  me  ; 
and " 

"  Hate  you  ! — Oh,  Milwood — have  I  not  preferred  you  even  to 
virtue?  And  now,  if  you  knew  the  struggle  of  my  heart,  you 
would  see  it  is  impossible  to  hate  you  !" 

"Generous generous  Barnwell ! — why  should  the  cold  and 

rigid  arbitration  of  an  ill-judging  world  sever  such  hearts  as  ours '." 

As  she  spoke,  she  twined  her  arms  around  his  neck  ;  her  palpi- 
tating heart  beat  against  his  bosom,  and  her  warm  kisses  brought 
on  a  delirium  of  ecstacy. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  three  men,  in  masks,  rush- 
ed into  the  room.  Milwood  shrieked  and  fainted.  Two  of  these 
intruders  held  Barnwell  on  the  sofa,  and  prevented  his  cries  ;  whilst 
the  other  conveyed  Milwood  away  in  his  arms. 

"  Barnwell  in  vain  exerted  himself  against  superior  strength,  as 
no  person  came  to  his  assistance.  In  about  ten  minutes  the  third 
man  returned,  and  beckoned  the  others  to  follow  him.  They  left 
Barnwrell  gagged  and  bound.  A  considerable  time  elapsed  .before 
Mrs.  Griffiths  and  her  servant  made  their  appearance,  crying  and 
lamenting  most  bitterly  having  undergone  the  same  treatment  as 
Barnwell. 

When  they  had  released  him,  he  raved  with  the  fury  of  a  mani- 


GEOROE     BARNWELL.  117 

ac ;  impeached  the  integrity  of  the  poor  woman,  who  stood  trem- 
bling at  his  anger  ;  and  gave  the  reins  to  the  passions  of  jealousy 
and  despair. 

The  strength  of  this  unhappy  attachment  was  at  no  period  so 
visible  as  now.  The  uncertainty  of  her  fate,  the  tormenting  ap- 
prehensions he  felt  for  her  safety,  engrossed  his  whole  soul. 

The  house  being  situated  at  a  distance  from  any  other,  he  could 
tain  no  intelligence  by  inquiries. 

Having,  after  a  considerable  time,  somewhat  exhausted  the  first 
and  most  violent  bursts  of  passion,  he  began  to  listen  to  the  reason- 
ings of  Mrs.  Griffiths ;  and  the  only  probable  conclusion  that  he 
could  draw  was,  that  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  there  in  the 
morning,  and  was  so  desirous  of  seeing  Milwood,  and  who,  he  had 
supposed,  was  Mental,  must  have  been  her  uncle,  who  had  taken 
this  method  of  carrying  her  off  to  her  husband. 

As  his  present  state  of  mind  prevented  his  returning  immediately 
to  Mr.  Emery's  he  remained  some  hours  at  Brompton,  contempla- 
ting what  steps  to  pursue.  The  suggestion  that  best  pleased  him, 
of  the  many  that  presented  themselves,  was,  to  seek  out  Mental, 
relate  to  him  all  that  had  happened,  and  be  guided  by  his  opinion. 

Just  as  he  was  preparing  to  put  this  resolution  in  practice,  a  boy 
delivered  a  letter  at  the  door,  addressed  to  Barnwell,  and  which  he 
said  had  been  given  him  by  a  man,  who  directed  him  to  the  house, 
and  then  ran  away. 

THE    LETTER. 

"It  will  be  a  very  useless  waste  of  your  time  to  pursue  the  unfortunate  woman  who 
has  been  snatched  from  your  arms  ;  she  is  in  the  custody  of  her  uncle  at  present,  and 
in  a  few  days  will  quit  this  kingdom  forever.  The  steps  which  an  injured  husband 
will  adopt  towards  the  spoiler  of  his  honour,  and  the  destroyer  of  his  peace,  you  will 
shortly  learn  from  those,  whose  profession  it  U  to  seek  from  the  justice  of  the  laws  the 
only  reparation  in  your  power." 

There  was  neither  name  nor  address  affixed  to  this  letter ;  but 
its  contents  stung  Barnwell  to  the  soul.  It  confirmed  his  opinion 
as  to  her  fate,  and  his  own.  He  now  hesitated,  whether  he  ought 
to  apply  to  Mental,  under  his  present  circumstances ;  and  yet  to 
whom  else  could  he  apply.  He  shuddered  at  the  very  idea  of  ac- 
quainting his  mother  or  his  uncle— The  thought  was  like  lightning 
through  his  brain — 

"  Never,  never,"  exclaimed  he,  as  he  paced  the  room  with  the 
letter  in  his  hand — "  never  could  my  hand  be  firm  enough  to  write 
them  such  intelligence.  What !  tell  my  benevolent  benefactor, 
that,  in  return  for  his  generosity  to  me,  I  have  branded  his  name 
and  family  with  the  crime  of  adultery  ! — tell  my  affectionate  sister, 
my  honoured  and  widowed  mother,  that,  instead  of  the  consolations 
I  owe  her,  she  must  expect  to  read  the  crimes  of  her  son  exhibited 
in  the  public  prints,  and  listen  to  sneering  tattlers,  while  they  point 
to  her  venerable  form,  and  cry,  '  that's  the  Adulterer's  mother  !' — 
O  God,  can  any  man  do  this  ? — No,  no — let  me  hide  my  guilty 
head  in  some  dark  cavern,  far  from  the  haunts  of  men,  ere  such  ti- 


118  GEORGE      BARXWELL. 

dings  reach  their  eaie  !     Oh,  that  the  oblivion  of  death  was  shed 
over  me  ere  that  day  come  !" 

When  the  powers  of  his  mind  had  been  stretched  to  the  extent 
of  pain,  by  reflecting  on  his  mother  and  Eliza,  and  some  little  re- 
laxation of  grief  ensued ,  another  source  of  misery  sprung  from  the 
image  of  Milwood.  He  felt  all  her  sufferings  ;  he  listened,  in  im- 
agination, to  her  groans ;  and  his  heart  sickened  at  the  thought  that 
he  should  never  see  her  more.  Thus  tortured  by  remorse  and 
jealousy,  the  unhappy  Barnwell,  with  trembling  steps,  once  more 
gained  his  master's  house  ;  and,  without  resolving  on  any  meas- 
ures to  adopt,  he  passed  a  sleepless  night,  in  anxious  dread  of  what 
to-morrow  would  produce. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

There  is  a  species  of  minor  wit,  which  is  much  used,  and  much  more  abused  ;  I 
mean  Raillery.  It  is  much  safer  to  let  it  quite  alone,  than  to  play  with  it  ;  and  yet 
almost  every  body  does  play  with  it,  though  tbey  see,  daily,  the  quarrels  and  heart- 
burnings that  it  occasions. — CHESTERFIELD. 

THE  first  intelligence  that  Barnwell  received,  when  he  arose, 
was  the  arrival  of  the  family  from  the  Pavilion  the  preceding  day, 
which  he  gathered  from  the  servants,  who  were  packing  and  cord- 
ing trunks  for  a  journey.  Mr.  Emery  himself  had  risen  early,  and 
encountered  Barnwell  in  the  Hall.  There  were  no  traces  of  un- 
easiness now  to  be  observed  in  his  countenance,  and  Barnwell  was 
not  a  little  surprised  at  so  sudden  a  return  of  his  former  gayety. 

"  We're  going  to  Ramsgate,"  said  Mr.  Emery,  "  and  Mrs. 
Emery  insists  upon  your  accompanying  us.  Indeed,  I  wish  it  my- 
self." 

Barnwell  was  thunderstruck — "  Ramsgate,  sir  ! — I  really  am  not 
prepared.  If  I  might  be  excused — " 

"  Oh,  by  no  means  ;  any  thing  you  may  have  occasion  for  can  be 
sent  after  you.  The  plan  is  arranged  ;  you  are  to  drive  Miss  Free- 
man in  the  curricle  ;  and  there  will  be  three  or  four  other  carriages. 
We  breakfast  early.  The  carriages  are  ordered  at  eleven.  Ywull 
be  ready." 

Before  Barnwell  could  reply,  Mr.  Emery  was  gone.  "  Rams- 
gate  !"  said  he  to  himself.  "  Curricle  ! — Miss  Freeman  !  This  is 
sudden  indeed  !  Just  at  this  crisis  to  be  obliged  to  leave  the  me- 
tropolis! — What  can  be  done?— Even  should  I  acquaint  Mental, 
what  could  he  do  towards  concealing  a  transaction,  that  must  come 
before  a  public  court  of  justice  t — His  advice,  at  least,  may  aid  me !" 

It  was  yet  but  eight  o'clock  ;  he  determined,  therefore,  to  wait 
upon  Mental  immediately.  When  he  arrived  at  his  lodgings,  to 
his  infinite  concern,  he  learnt  that  he  had  discharged  them  the  day 
before,  at  a  moment's  notice ;  but  had  left  the  following  note, 
which  was  to  have  been  delivered  to  him  that  morning. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL 


The  hope  of  meeting  Mental  at  Ramsgate,  tended  to  make  the 
journey  thither  no  longer  a  matter  of  regret ;  and  as  he  flattered 
himself,  that  his  prosecutors  would  at  least  acquaint  him  with  their 
proceedings,  he  left  particular  directions  to  have  all  letters  immedi- 
ately forwarded  to  him  :  and,  assuming  as  serene  a  countenance  as 
possible,  he  joined  the  party  in  the  breakfast  room,  which  consisted 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emery,  the  Miss  Emerys,  Miss  Freeman,  Lord 
Morley,  Mr.  Eastwood,  and  Captain  Middleton. 

In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  prevent  it,  the  countenance  of  Barnwell 
spoke  a  language  different  to  his  tongue,  and  but  ill  accorded  with 
the  vivacity  he  assumed. 

"  Knight  of  the  woful  countenance,"  cried  Charlotte  Emery, 
"  whence  springs  thy  sorrow? — 

'  Dost  grieve  for  friendship  unrotiirn'rt, 
Or  unregarded  love  V 

"  Really,  young  man,"  cried  Mrs.  Emery,  "  you  assume  a  kind 
of  gravity  by  no  means  becoming  at  your  age — you  positively  va- 
pour one  !" 

"  What's  the  matter,  Barnwell?"  said  Mr.  Emery. 

"  I  believe,  'pon  my  honour,"  cried  Lord  Morley,  "  we  are  too 
severe  upon  so  susceptible  a  youth." 

"  Dear  me,"  cried  Charlotte — "  only  look,  Miss  Freeman,  how 
prettily  he  blushes  ! — Nay,  child,  I  did  not  tell  you  to  blush  ;  but, 
really,  there  is  a  very  lively  sympathy  between  you." 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  publish  the  bans  of  marriage,  at  once, "said 
Mr.  Eastwood,  "  between  George  Barnwell,  of  the  parish  of " 

"  I  forbid  the  bans,  in  the  name  of  one  Milwood  of  Brompton  !" 
interrupted  Charlotte. 

Barnwell  turned  pale,  and  the  tea-cup  clattered  as  he  held  it  in 
his  hand. 

"  I  have  been  a  silent  auditor,  sir,  of  this  kind  of  raillery  some 
time,"  said  Maria,  addressing  herself  to  Mr.  Emery  ;  "  but  1  now 
demand  your  interference  to  check  such  levity  ;  since,  if  my  friend 
feels  no  concern  for  the  pain  she  inflicts  on  the  feelings  of  others, 
I  can  no  longer  endure  the  insults  she  bestows  upon  mine!" 

Charlotte  looked  grave. 

"O  dear!  Miss  Freeman!"  cried  two  or  three  at  once — "O 
dear  ! — really,  you  view  the  matter  too  seriously  by  half— Consider 
it  as  a  joke."" 

"  You  will  excuse  me,"  replied  Maria  :  "  but  I  cannot  so  far 
forget  the  respect  due  to  my  character,  as  to  yield  it  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  jesters  !  I  am  sure  my  dear  Charlotte  will  acquit  me  of 
unnecessary  severity  in  my  present  appeal  ;  and  I  hope,  from  this 
moment,  to  feel  its  success." 


120  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  Very  well,  madam — very  well  " — cried  Charlotte  ; — "  you  may 
talk  us  dotfn  with  your  notions  of  propriety,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  ;  but  you  can't  prevent  grooms  and  stable  boys  fiom  telling 
what  they  see  and  hear  to  the  footmen  ;  and  if  the  footmen  should 
whisper  the  chambermaid,  and  she  should  confide  in  the  valet,  and 
the  valet  should  drop  a  word  or  two  as  he  combs  my  Lord's  hair, 
and  then  his  Lordship  reveals  it  to  me — why  have  not  I  a  right  to 
tell  my  story  again  ?" 

"  What  does  all  this  allude  to  ?"  said  Mr.  Emery. 

"  You  must  understand,"  said  Lord  Morley ,  "  that  my  valet " 

"  Give  me  leave  to  tell  my  own  story,"  interrupted  Charlotte. 

"  Only  remember,  I  do  not  vouch  for  your  embellishments,  Char- 
lotte," replied  his  Lordship. 

"  You  know,  sir,"  returned  she,  "that  when  we  first  saw  Mr. 
Bantwell,  we  all  concluded  that  the  young  man  had  been  bred  in  a 
monastery — he  had  all  that  cold  sort  of  gravity,  that  monks  are  said 
to  possess  ;  and  was  forever  preaching  about  virtue  and  propriety, 
and  such  things.  Who  would  ever  have  expected,  then,  to  hear 
that  such  a  being  had  actually  under  his  patronage  one  of  the  finest 
women  in  England  ;  of  whom  he  is  so  extremely  jealous,  that  he 
keeps  her  locked  up  in  a  sort  of  citadel  at  Brompton.  They  say 
he  employs  two  eunuchs  and  an  old  woman  lo  attend  her  ;  and  never 
permits  her  to  approach  the  window,  or  walk  in  the  garden,  except 
by  moonlight.  We  were  all  excessively  astonished  at  this  intelli- 
gence ;  but  as  for  Miss  Freeman,  she  has  been  melancholy  ever 
since  !" 

"  You  see,  Maria,  what  an  incorrigible  she  is  !"  said  Mr.  Emery. 

"  It's  perfectly  amazing  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Eastwood,  in  a  tone  of 
fulsome  adulation,  "  how  any  one  can  be  otherwise  than  enamoured 
of  such  an  enchanting  vivacity  !" 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Lord  Morley,  "  I  think  it  a  most  enviable 
talent  which  Charlotte  possesses,  of  relieving  a  dull  story,  by  throw- 
ing in  a  few  dashes  of  light  and  shade.  How  intolerably  petrifying 
it  is,  to  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  dull  matter-of-fact  style,  which 
some  people  narrate  in." 

"  Splendid  fiction  obtains  a  preference  with  your  Lordship,  then, 
over  plain  truth,"  said  Maria. 

"  Out  of  all  doubt !"  said  his  Lordship. 

Barnwell,  glad  to  put  an  end  to  the  conversation,  ran  to  the  win- 
dow, and  announced  the  arrival  of  the  carriages.  A  delay  now 
commenced,  by  the  positive  refusal  of  Maria  to  ascend  the  curricle, 
and  ended  not  till  a  considerable  time  was  spent  in  forming  a  new 
arrangement,  which  gave  the  curricle  to  Lord  Morley  and  Emn\a 
Emery,  placed  Maria  in  his  Lordship's  coach,  and  delivered  Barn- 
well  over  to  Captain  Middleton's  post  chaise. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  121 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 

Yet  what  can  Satire,  whether  grave  or  gay  ; — 

It  may  correct  a  foible may  chastise  . 

The  freaks  of  fashion COWPEB. 

AFTER  a  journey  interrupted  by  no  incident  worthy  of  relation, 
the  travellers  arrived  at  a  house,  prepared  for  their  reception,  at 
Ramsgate. 

Mrs.  Emery  and  her  daughters  were  delighted  with  its  situation, 
commanding  fine  views  of  the  sea  in  the  front,  and  an  extensive 
sweep  of  country  behind  ;  and,  having  no  single  care  upon  their 
spirits,  they  were  negatively  happy  in  participating,  with  others  of 
the  first  order  of  people,  the  amusements  of  the  season. 

Lord  Morley  and  the  polite  divine  also  killed  their  time  tolerably 
to  their  satisfaction,  with  the  aid  of  bathing  rooms,  libraries,  thea- 
tres, raffles,  dancing,  sailing,  riding,  driving,  eating,  drinking,  and 
sleeping. 

Captain  Middleton  and  Mr.  Emery  had  other  occupations  ;  they 
were  gamesters  in  the  confidence  of  each  other  ;  the  former  had 
been  many  years  of  the  profession,  the  other  was  of  later  practice. 
Mr.  Freeman,  his  godfather  and  master,  had  married  him  to  his 
ward,  an  heiress,  and  had  given  him  a  share  of  his  concerns. 

Mr.  Emery  entered  life  with  the  fairest  prospects  and  the  best 
intentions  ;  but  unfortunately  connecting  himself  with  courtiers, 
and  by  their  interests  with  the  government  itself,  his  vanity  defeat- 
ed his  interest,  and  he  had  injured,  most  deeply,  not  only  his  own 
fortune,  but  that  of  his  early  benefactor.  By  the  artificial  aid 
which  his  court  friends  afforded  him,  he  was  enabled  to  extend  a 
credit,  which  imperceptibly,  but  inevitably,  undermined  his  for- 
tunes ;  since,  in  return  for  that  credit,  a  reciprocal  accommodation 
was  expected,  which  could  only  be  yielded  by  narrowing  their  cap- 
ital, whilst  additional  credit  called  for  its  enlargement. 

It  is  matter  of  peculiar  regret,  that  the  only  methods  which  per- 
sons in  Mr.  Emery's  situation  can  adopt,  to  retrieve  their  errors, 
are  precisely  those  which  are  equally  likely  to  render  them  fatal. 
Thus,  had  Mr.  Emery  possessed  the  resolution  to  have  narrowed 
his  concerns,  confined  his  trade,  and  lessened  his  expenses,  his 
consequence  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  would  have  sunk,  his  court 
friends  would  have  vanished,  and  those  whom  he  could  no  longer 
serve,  would  at  once  have  withheld  their  countenance  from  him; 
and  the  consequence  is  obvious. 

In  addition  to  this  consideration,  Mr.  Emery  was  naturally  vain, 
and  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  a  temporary  degradation.  Hope 
pointed  from  one  speculation  to  another,  till*  in  the  pursuit  of  re- 
paration, he  found  destruction  ;  yet,  though  in  sight,  he  struggled 
to  conceal  it  from  himself :  he  trembled  with  horror  at  the  recol- 
lection of  the  wide  ruin  he  had  wrought,  and,  by  various  methods, 
strove  to  murder  his  own  thoughts. 
Middleton  was  a  man,  whose  very  heart  was  bad,  and  within 


123  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

whose  breast  the  voice  of  Conscience  had  long  been  stifled.  The 
necessities  of  Emery  made  him  the  dupe  of  this  wretch,  who,  by 
pretending  to  initiate  him  in  the  mean  arts  of  gaming,  only  secured 
him  the  more  easily  his  prey. 

The  amiable  Maria  carried  with  her  to  Ramsgate  a  silent  sor- 
row, and  concealed  affection,  which  preyed  upon  her  health  and 
spirits,  and  cast  a  gloom  over  those  scenes  that  enchanted  others. 

.Barnwell,  the  unhappy  Barnwell,  was  the  prey  of  the  most  af- 
flicting remorse  and  tormenting  uncertainty. 

Such  were  the  party,  who,  by  the  splendour  of  their  establish- 
ment, attracted  the  admiration  of  the  rich,  and  the  envy  of  the 
poor  ;  that  poor,  who  would  often  exchange  their  envy  for  pity,  if, 
through  the  dazzling  exterior  of  grandeur,  they  could  view  such 
hearts  as  Emery's. 

Two  or  three  days  elapsed,  and  brought  no  success  to  Barnwell's 
search  after  Mental.  He  inquired  minutely,  and  sought  diligently, 
but  to  no  purpose.  Nor  had  he  received  any  intelligence  from 
London.  The  fourth  day,  as  he  was  returning  from  a  walk,  his 
attention  was  drawn  to  the  sea  shore  by  the  arrival  of  the  hoy  ; 
and  he  stood  some  time  contemplating  the  motley  crew  as  they 
disembarked. 

Among  a  variety  of  strange  figures,  he  particularly  noticed  a  tall, 
thin  man,  dressed  in  a  slovenly  manner,  in  a  shabby  suit  of  black, 
who,  the  moment  he  landed,  seated  himself  on  a  firkin  of  butter ; 
and,  pulling  out  his  pocket  book  and  pencil,  began  scribbling,  and 

exclaimed  aloud 

"  Dam'me,   that'll    do — fresh    water   sailing the    Sprightly 

Kitty Battersea  Bridge Chelsea  Water  Works Splash 

Spanish Keep  moving Push   on What's  to  pay  ? 

that's  your  sort It'll  do,  dam'me  !" 

Every  body  stared  with  astonishment. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman,  pray?"  said  Barnwell  to  another  pas- 
senger who  stood  near  him. 

"  Hum  !"  cried  the  stranger — il  only  notice  him." 
In  a  minute  the  other  started  from  the  butter-tub,  and  set  off  a 
scamper,   exclaiming,  as  he  ran  by    Barnwell — "  Dam'me,  I've 
every  thing  but  a  plot !" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger  to  Barnwell,  "  that's  one  of  the  first 
dramatic  geniuses  we  have.  He  came  down  in  the  hoy,  merely  to 
study  characters;  and,  I  warrant  you,  we  shall  have  a  play  next 
season  something  about  sailing." 

"  Next  season  !"  replied  Barnwell  :  "  he  must  be  a  quick  hand, 
then,  at  these  matters."  I  ••.•• 

"  Oh,  sir,  he'll  turn  you  out  two  in  a  winter  ;  and  one  shall  be 
equally  as  good  as  the  other. — But,  pray,  sir,  may  I  ask  if  you  can 
direct  me  to  a  Mr.  Emery's  residence  here  ?" 

The  smile  which  hovered  on  the  lips  of  Barnwell,  at  the  eccen- 
tricity of  the  dramatist,  fled  in  an  instant ;  he  trembled  as  he  an- 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  123 

swered  the  inquiry,  and  was  unable  to  ask  the  man  his  business 
there,  much  as  he  wished  to  learn  it. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  know  the  person  I  want  to  see,"  cried  the 
man  : — "  it's  a  Mr.  Barnwell." 

"  Fortunate  enough,"  said  Barnwell,  with  a  look  ill  according 
with  the  sentence  :  "  My  name  is  Barnwell.  I  reside  with  Mr. 
Emery." 

"  You,  sir  ! — Is  it  possible1? — If  you  are  the  person  I  want,  you 
know  a  lady  of  the  name  of 

"  Mihvood,"  interrupted  Barnwell — "  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"  The  same,  indeed,"  replied  the  man. 

"  Tell  me,  then,  instantly,  your  business have  you  any  let- 
ters from  her — any  message — any " 

The  man  retired  some  paces  from  Barnwell,  and  looking  him  full 
in  the  face — "Any  message  from  her  ! — Pray,  sir,  what  do  you 
take  me  for? — No,  sir;  you  mistake  the  person  you  have  to  deal 
with,  I  assure  you.  I  come,  sir,  from  the  injured  husband,  from 
the  enraged  uncle,  of  that  unfortunate  woman — and  I  come,  sir, 
upon  most  serious  business— but  this  is  not  a  proper  place  for  such 
conversation  as  we  must  enter  into." 

They  retired  to 's  Hotel. — When  they  were  seated,  and 

alone,  the  stranger,  pulling  off  his  hat,  and  stroking  his  chin  with 
an  air  of  vast  importance,  began  in  a  pompous  tone  of  voice — "  My 

name,  sir,  is  Blackmore Nehemiah  Blackmore,  of  Hatton-Gar- 

den ;  a  name  not  altogether  new,  I  flatter  myself,  to  the  ears  of 
the  world.  Few  people,  of  my  standing,  have  had  half  the  prac- 
tice in  certain  causes,  vulgarly  termed  crim.  con.;  which  causes, 
as  you  doubtless  must  have  noticed,  tend  more  than  any  thing  else 
within  the  pale  of  the  courts,  to  fix  every  one  concerned  therein 
upon  a  perspicuous  eminence  of  notoriety ;  as  they  form,  sir,  a  spe- 
cies of  news,  which  the  public  more  greedily  devour,  than  the  de- 
scription of  a  sea-fight,  military  operations,  theatrical  intelligence, 
parliamentary  debates,  court  dresses,  and  voluntary  contributions! 
You  must,  doubtless,  sir,  have  observed  the  eagerness  with  which 
every  body  skips  over  those  columns  of  a  newspaper  which  contain 
the  aforesaid  articles,  as  well  as  the  dull  advertisements  of  officers' 
widows  in  distress;  lieutenantcies  to  be  disposed  of;  mendicant 
clergymen,  with  fifteen  children,  and  thirty  pounds  a  year;  pre- 
sentations to  livings  in  a  sporting  country  to  be  sold  by  auction  ; 
the  Temple  of  Flora,  and  Dr.  Nostrum  :  bankrupt  lists,  and  curri- 
cles to  be  sold  cheap  : — but,  sir,  when  at  the  top  of  the  column, 
the  eye  catches—'  Court  of  King's  Bench— Crim.  Con. —  This  was 
an  action  brought  by  the  plaintiff  A,  to  recover  of  the  defendant  B, 
satisfaction  in  damages—' — Then,  sir,  the  attention  is  fixed  through 
five  columns  of  Mr.  Erskine's  pathetic  opening — Mr.  Garrow's 
tart  examination — Mr.  Law's  reply,  and  Lord  Kenyon's  severe  re- 
marks on  the  crime  ;  nor  is  the  eye  ever  once  moved,  till  the  con- 
clusion of '  the  Jury  returned  a  verdict  for  the  plantiff  with  heavy 
6 


124  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

damages  of  £\ 0,000,' -I  dare  say,  sir,  you  must  have  ob- 
served this?" 

Barn  well  too  deeply  felt  the  truth  of  these  ill-timed  observations-— 
"  Certainly — Yes — true — "  replied  he;  "  but  to  your  business,  sir." 

•'  Why,  sir,  you  are  young,  I  perceive,  and  new  to  the  world, 
or  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  mention,  that  you  are  extremely 
fortunate  in  having  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Nehemiah  Blackmore, 
of  Hatton-Garden ;  whose  character  is  that  of  a  peace-maker. — - 
Upwards  of  a  thousand  lawsuits  have  been  prevented  by  your  hum- 
ble servant ;  though  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  it  known,  as 
I  should  certainly  be  kicked  out  of  the  profession." 

"  Still,  sir,t"  said  Barnwell,  "  you  wander  from  the  subject — I 
desire  to  know  your  instructions." 

"  As  to  my  instructions,  they  were  to  proceed  immediately 
against  you,  to  recover  damages  for — " 

il  Less  prolixity,  if  it  be  possible." 

"  In  short,  then,  sir — being  ordered  to  prosecute,  I  reflected  upon 
the  certain  consequences  of  such  a  measure,  which  always  exposes 
both  panies,  and  frequently  fixes  three  or  four  heads  in  a  sixpenny 
magazine — " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  man,  speak  to  the  purpose,"  cried  Barn- 
•well,  starting  from  his  chair,  and  walking  about  the  room — "  spare 
yourself  this  needless  preface  to  your  demands — Say,  honestly  at 
once,  that  the  wretch  who  married  this  lady,  is  willing  to  heal  his 
wounded  honour  with  gold ;  and  that,  if  I  \vill  give  it  him  with- 
out the  mandate  of  the  law,  he  will  accept  it — Is  it  not  so?" 

"  Something  like  it,  I  must  confess." 

"  Well,  sir— and  the  sum — ?" 

"On:  thousand  guineas." 

"  Tell  the  mean  wretch,  then,  that  it  is  impossible  to  comply 
wi'.h  his  terms,"  said  Barnwell,  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  Stay,  sir — stop — you  are  very  rash — very  rash,  indeed Do 

you  coc^'u  r  the  consequences?" 

"  Yes,  sir — and  shall  provide  against  them?" 

"You  look  wildly,  sir for  God's  sake,  think  upon  what  you 

are  about  to  do.  I  understand  your  expectations  from  your  friends 
are  groat — surely  you  could  not  hesitate  between  a  measure  that 
will  conceal  this  transaction  from  them  forever,  and  one  that  must 
speedily  expose  you  to  their  displeasure,  and  them  to  the  ridicule 
of  the  world?" 

"  I  cannot  be  said  to  hesitate  where  there  is  no  choice — my  fate 
appears  to  be  determined — and  I  must  meet  it.  Shall  you,  Mr. 
Biackoiore,  ever  see " 

"  I  understand  you,  sir — It  is  quite  uncertain — She  was  to  have 
left  Dover  yesterday,  but  her  uncle  has  been  prevented  from  ac- 
companying her ;  and  I  know  not  if  they  have  yet  sailed." 

"  Dover — you  say? Tare  well,  sir/' — and  he  rushed  out  of  the 

loom,  leaving  Mr.  Nehemiah  Blackmore,  of  Hatton  Garden,  ia  no 
small  consternation  at  his  behaviour. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL. 


CHAPTER   XXXII.  * 

Oh,  whither  would  ye  drive  me  !  —  I  must  grunt, 

Yes,  1  must  grant,  but  with  a  swelling  soul!  —  DKTDEN. 

Two  days  more  elapsed  without  affording  Barnwell  any  intelli- 
gence of  Mental  ;  and  he  concluded,  that,  having  accomplished  the 
purpose  of  his  journey,  he  had  returned  to  town.  The  mind  of 
Barnwell,  in  the  mean  time,  was  suffering  the  severest  pains  of 
which  its  nature  was  susceptible.  In  addition  to  the  acuteness  of 
his  own  feelings,  the  letters,  of  his  mother  and  Eliza  inflicted  ago- 
nizing wounds  upon  his  heart.  The  state  of  his  mind  became 
more  and  more  evident  to  observers  ;  and  from  an  object  of  ridicule, 
he  had  become  the  subject  of  pity,  even  with  the  volatile  Charlotte 
herself. 

But  the  utmost  powers  of  language  are  inadequate  to  describe 
the  conflict  of  contending  influences  in  the  bosom  of  the  amiable 
Maria.  Pity  was  a  nursling  which  she  had  fostered  therefrom  the 
first  moment  she  was  capable  of  receiving  impressions.  Benevo- 
lence was  the  instinct  of  Maria  —  and  to  dispense  around  her  comfort 
and  peace  was  the  business  of  her  hands,  and  the  object  of  her 
thoughts.  —  When  the  merits  of  Barnwell  had  kindled  in  her  heart 
a  new  and  strong  emotion,  she  had  cherished  it  without  the  re- 
motest apprehension  of  danger.  When  she  discovered  that  virtu- 
ous sympathies,  and  congenial  tastes,  imperceptibly  had  wrought  a 
passion  in  her  breast,  she  started  not  with  shame  —  she  examined 
the  object  of  her  admiration  in  every  point  of  view,  and  found  him 
worthy  ;  while  the  similarity  of  their  dispositions  and  pursuits  drew 
from  Barnwell  an  attention,  which  Hope  had  painted  to  her  mind  in 
the  colours  most  agreeable  to  her  wishes.  It  was  not,  therefore, 
till  the  quick  echo  of  scandal  had  vibrated  to  her  ear  stories  to  the 
prejudice  of  his  moral  character,  that  the  breast  of  Maria  ever  felt 
a  pang.  But  when  his  subsequent  behaviour  sanctioned  the  sur- 
mises formed  upon  report  ;  when  she  beheld  his  former  openness 
of  countenance  changed  into  a  contracted  brow,  and  a  timid  eye  ; 
when  she  saw  his  former  polite  attentions  converted  into  the  most 
ill-timed  absences  of  mind  —  his  occasional  starts  —  his  abrupt  sighs 
—  and  various  other  symptoms,  that  too  plainly  say  —  "  My  heart  is 
not  at  ease!"  —  then  was  Mar\a  miserable  indeed!  She  felt  his 
sorrows,  and  would  have  healed  them  by  the  sacrifice  of  all  that 
was  dearest  to  her  in  existence. 

As  she  pursued  this  train  of  thought,  however,  and  traced  the 
supposed  cause  of  his  inquietudes  to  Milwood,  pity  for  his  suffer- 
ings became  diminished  by  a  jealous  apprehension,  which  she 
found  it  impossible  to  conquer.  In  vain  she  reproved  the  selfishness 
of  her  feelings  :  she  found  that  the  heart  will  act  as  a  free  agent  ; 
and  often,  very  often,  against  the  cool,  dissuading  admonitions  of 
the  judgment. 

That  heart  still  cherished  for  Barnwell  the  glow  of  love  ;  and, 


126  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

iq  spite  of  her  efforts  to  dissemble,  the  effects  of  that  love  were 
conspicuous  in  many  of  her  actions. 

The  whole  of  the  party  except  Barnwell,  being  engaged  on  a 
sailing  trip,  to  visit  the  fleet  then  anchored  in  the  Roads,  he  had 
spent  great  part  of  the  day  in  writing  letters  for  Mr.  Emery ; 
when,  towards  evening,  a  person  inquired  for  him,  who  would  im- 
part his  errand  to  himself  only.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a  fish- 
erman, and,  upon  being  introduced  to  Barnwell,  delivered  the  fol- 
lowing letter 

"  If  it  be  possible,  let  me  entreat  you  will  accompany  the  bearer 
immediately,  who  will  coii'luct  you  in  five  minutes  to 

"  Yours  only  and  forever,  MIL  WOOD." 

Without  a  moment's  deliberation  Barnwell  followed  his  guide. 
At  .a  small  detached  hut,  near  the  sea  side,  the  fisherman  halted. 
A  clean,  neat  elderly  woman  sat  at  the  door,  mending  nets,  and 
four  or  five  children  were  playing  before  her 

"  This  is  my  bit  of  a  place,  please  your  honour ;  and  there  is  a 
grand  lady  within,  who  gave  me  that  letter  for  your  honour." 

Barnwell  entered  and  discovered  Milwood,  elegantly  attired  in  a 
travelling  dress.  The  fisherman  retired  to  the  outside  of  the  hut, 
and  they  were  left  alone. 

"  How  came  vou  hither?"  cried  Barnwell.  "  Where  is  vour 
uncle!" 

There  was  a  wild  horror  in  her  looks — she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
him,  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  and  made  no  reply  to  his  questions. 
She  conducted  him  in  this  manner,  through  the  fisherman's  garden, 
to  an  avenue  that  led  directly  to  the  cliffs. — Barnwell  began  to 
tremble  for  her  intellects,  so  well  she  feigned  the  character  of  con- 
firmed despair.  When  they  had  ascended  a  stupendous  height, 
she  approached  the  extremity  of  the  cliff  that  overhung  an  inlet  of 
the  sea,  whose  billows  tumbled  at  its  base  with  an  awful  roaring. 

"  Here,  Barnwell,  we  must  pause,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
expressive  of  the  firmest  resolution — "  we  are  alone — unheard — 
unseen  by  mortal  !" — then  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  setting  sun — 
"Witness  for  me,  thou  glorious  orb,  descending  now  beneath  the 
expanse  of  waters — If  these  eyes  for  the  last  time  are  fixed  on  thee, 
Oh,  bear  me  witness  in  the  chancery  of  heaven — here  stands  my 
murderer!" 

Barnwell  started  ! — 

"  The  agitation  of  the  mind."  continued  she,  "  consequent  on  an 
adventure  like  that  which  severed  us  so  rudely  from  each  other,  is 
now  over,  sir.     There  exist  no  more  within  this  bosom  doubts  and 
desires,  contending  for  empire  : — the  conflict  is  decided.     T  am  free 
from  the  control  both  of  my  uncle  and  the  being  who  imagined  that 
the  mummery  of  a  ceremony  could  consign  my  heart  to  his  posses- 
sion.    They  have  both  sworn  never  to  see  me  more." 
"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Barnwell. 
"  Yes,"  replied  she  ;  "  but  you,  sir,  they  mean  to  pursue  with 


fiftORGE     BARNWELL.  127 

all  the  vengeance  with  which  the  law  invests  them. — It  seems  you 
have  thought  fit  to  reject  their  overtures  to  compromise,  and  have 
determined  rather  to  suffer  a  ridiculous  exhibition  of  yourself  and 
me,  than  part,  a  little  sooner  than  you  must,  with  a  few  filthy 
counters  !" 

Barnwell  was  amazed ! 

"  It  would  be  absurd,  through  a  false  delicacy,  to  speak  less  to  the 
purpose,  sir. — We  are  not  now  mingled  with  the  subjects  of  pre- 
judice and  forms,  in  what  is  termed  society.  You  and  I  are,  upon 
this  spot,  ourselves  alone ;  and  the  expression  of  our  feelings  to 
each  other  needs  suffer  no  restraint.  All  that  we  view  around  us, 
at  present,  is  the  work  of  nature,  save  these  artificial  habiliments 
that  deck  our  persons. — Be  ours,  then,  the  language  of  nature. 
For  myself,  I  am  determined  to  speak  no  other.  Thus,  then,  says 
my  heart that  it  will  exist  upon  no  other  terms,  than  the  pos- 
session of  your  love.  Say.  then,  Barnwell — Do  you  bid  me  still 
enjoy  the  cheerful  rays  of  life — or  shall  I  quickly  seek  the  shades 
of  everlasting  night?" 

"  How  wildly  you  converse  !"  said  Barnwell : — "  surely  your 
reason,  Milwood " 

"  Has  thrown  off  the  fetters  that  controlled  it,"  interrupted  she. 
"  The  true  end  of  reason  is  to  lead  us  to  happiness.  Two  paths 
are  opened  to  me,  and  one  of  them  is — Death  ! — Surely  that  tremb- 
ling is  feigned,  sir — or  you  would  not  hesitate  to  prevent  a  catastro- 
phe which  so  seriously  affected  you." 

"  How  prevent  it,  Milwood  1" 

"  By  acceding  to  the  propositions  offered  you." 

"  It  is  impossible  !" 

"  Nothing  more  easy  ; — your  bond  for  the  greater  part  would  be 
accepted  ;  and,  surely  three  or  four  hundred  might  be  raised  imme- 
diately. I  have  some  baubles,  which  I  should  deem  well  disposed 
of  in  procuring  your  peace  of  mind.  But,  Barnwell,  there  is  a 
deliberate  coolness,  toe  evident  to  be  overlooked,  that  tells  me,  'tis 
your  wish,  that  the  affair  should  burst  upon  the  public  ear.  I 
must  have  been  mistaken  in  you,  sir,  when  I  thought  otherwise. 
But,  mark  me,  while  I  swear,  in  the  hallowed  presence  of  Omni- 
science !"  (and  she  knelt)  "  not  beyond  the  limits  of  another  day 
will  Milwood  live,  if  you  persist  in  a  refusal  of  the  terms  !" 

"  Hold,  hold — for  Heaven's  sake,  retract !"  cried  Barnwell. 

"  'Twas  not  rashly  sworn,  and  shall  be  sacredly  observed,"  said 
she,  rising  with  a  firm  majectic  air. 

The  soul  of  Barnwell  was  tortured  with  severest  conflicts.  He 
could  not  gaze  upon  her  form  without  a  love  that  equalled  adora- 
tion. His  own  heart,  void  of  guile,  suspected  not  deceit  in  her. 
He  conceived  he  saw  before  him  misery  and  despair  of  his  own 
creation;  and  his  countenance  proclaimed  to  Milwood,  that  the 
moment  proper  for  the  attack  was  come. 

Somewhat  softening  her  voice  and  her  manner,  she  pressed  his 
hand — "  Could  I  have  ever  thought  you  would  have  doomed  me  to 


128  GEORGE     BARNWELl. 

destruction,  Barnwell !  me,  did  I  say  :  Is  it  not  possible,  that  icith 
me  may  perish  one,  whose  future  smiles  might  have  blessed  us, 
Barnwell?" 

"  O  hold  f my  wife — my  guide — my  fate — lead,  direct,  con- 
trol me,  as  thou  wilt ! — Live,  Mil  wood  ;  live  on  any  terms  you 
please." 

With  matchless  art  she  guarded  against  this  overflow  of  his 
affection  ;  and  cautiously  reflecting  upon  her  situation — "  Nay, 
Barnwell,"  cried  she,  "  add  not  this  cruel  pity  to  my  sufferings! 
If  it  is  resolved,  that  I  must  die,  in  mercy  do  not  shake  my  resolu- 
tion, by  the  thought  that  you  would  feel  a  pang,  when  I  am  dead  !" 

"  Talk  not  of  death,"  said  Barnwell.  "  Do  I  not  say,  that  I  will 
sign  the  bond  ? — Ay,"  continued  he,  wildly,  "  though  sure  destruc- 
tion were  the  penalty.  Come,  then,  let  us  seek  this  Blackmore." 

"  Oh,  Barnwell,  how  has  this  tenderness  altered  all  my  thoughts. 
No  ;  you  shall  not  sign  this  bond  ;  at  least,  not  at  present.  Here 
are  some  jewels  of  my  mother's  ;  take  them  ;  they  have  been 
valued  at  six  hundred  pounds.  You  can  despatch  some  confiden- 
tial person  to  London,  who  may  dispose  of  them.  But,  in  the 
mean  time,  it  is  absolutely  necessary,  so  well  I  know  the  wretch's 
mercenary  spirit,  to  procure  three  hundred  pounds  this  night.  If 
you  could  borrow  so  much  till  the  jewels  are  disposed  of " 

"  Oh,  with  ease,"  cried  the  poor  victim.  "  I  have  always  more 
than  that  of  Mr.  Emery's  in  my  possession,  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
oblige  me." 

"  And  yet,"  said  Milwood,  "  would  it  not  lead  to  a  variety  of 
questions  and  conjectures,  if  you  were  to  ask  him  ?  As  it  will  be 
but,  at  farthest,  for  a  few  days,  could  you  not,  without  his  know- 
ledge  " 

Barnwell  started — "  What !  steal  it,  do  you  mean?" 

"  If  you  must  put  so  harsh  a  construction  on  my  meaning,  why, 
call  it  stealing.  I  conceive,  merely  to  borrow  from  an  idle  fund, 
for  so  short  a  time,  and  with  such  security  for  the  repayment, 
differs  essentially  from  stealing ; — but  use  your  own  discretion.  I 
I  merely  hinted  the  objection,  from  the  motive  of  desiring  to  save 
you  pain  ;  since  you  must  either  confess  our  connexion  too 
abruptly,  (which  would  be  conveyed  to  your  Eliza  and  your  mother,) 
or  evade  it  by  a  falsehood — a  meaner  vice,  in  my  estimation,  than 
even  stealing  /" 

This  sophistry  was  a  stumbling  block  to  Barnwell.  He  sighed 
— he  inwardly  lamented  the  alternative  to  which  he  was  reduced, 
but  was  silent.  They  now  walked  towards  the  fisherman's  hut. — 
Milwood  deposited  the  jewels  in  his  hands,  which  Barnwell  said  he 
would  not  sell,  but  pledge  for  the  sum  immediately  required,  and 
would  soon  redeem  them.  He  engaged  to  return  to  the  hut  in 
half  an  hour,  and  departed. 

He  entered  the  residence  of  Mr.  Emery — he  opened  his  bureau 
— his  hands  trembled — he  'counted  out  three  hundred  pounds  in 
bank  notes.  In  writing  his  name  on  one  of  them,  a  tear  fell  and 


GEORGE     BARNWKLL.  129 

blotted  it; — it  surprised  him: — "Why  do  I  weep?"  said  he — 
'•  Childish  weakness!" 

As  he  returned  through  the  town  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground  ;  he  imagined  every  passenger  looked  suspiciously  upon 
him.  When  he  entered  the  room,  Milwood  received  him  with 
open  arms.  He  breathed  hard — his  countenance  was  pale,  and  his 
knees  tottered. 

"  You  are  unwell,  my  Barnwell,"  said  she. 

"  A  little  sick — it  will  be  over  soon." 

"  If  this  is  the  consequence  of  your  effort  to  preserve  me,  Barn- 
well,  rather  let  me  perish  than  exist  upon  your  misery.— Go — 
replace  these  notes — and  be  happy!" 

"  Milwood — it  is  not  easy  to  vanquish  those  outposts  of  virtue, 
which  have  long  repelled  within  my  bosom  the  approach  of  a  mean 
thought.  A  reverence  of  honour  is  the  strong  guard  of  virtue.  I 
have  broken  the  trenches  of  self-approbation,  by  the  commission  of 
a  mean,  if  not  a  vicious  act ! — But  it  is  done — and — I  shall— I  hope 
— soon  forget  it!" 

"  Indeed— indeed,  my  Barnwell,  you  think  too  seriously.  Had 
you  even  committed  a  robbery,  you  could  not  have  discovered  more 
remorse.  Surely,  there  is  something  like  weakness  in  yielding  to 
these  vapourish  impressions." 

"  It  may  be  weakness — but " 

"  Come — come,  no  more  of  this — I  have  another  subject  now  for 
your  attention.  Do  you  observe  a  little  cottage  at  the  foot  of  yon 
ascent  that  winds  up  to  the  cliffs  ?  I  have  engaged  a  small  but 
neat  apartment  there,  for  a  few  days.  Shall  I  have  your  approba- 
tion ? — Come,  'tis  but  a  few  minutes'  walk." 

There  was  a  magic  surrounding  this  woman,  which  Barnwell 
had  long  found  omnipotent.  He  was  surprised  upon  entering  the 
cottage,  to  find  it  most  elegantly,  though  simply,  furnished.  The 
evening  was  warm — Milwood  conducted  him  to  an  alcove  iu  the 
garden,  that  commanded  a  near  view  of  the  sea.  A  gentle  breeze 
floated  melodiously  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean  ;  the  moon's  image 
was  reflected  in  the  deep,  and  her  silver  beams  shed  an  undazzling 
splendour  on  the  surrounding  scenery.  The  soothing  silence  of  the 
hoar  was  uninterrupted  ;  save,  now  and  then,  the  nightingale  sent 
forth  her  soft  and  sweetest  notes  ;  or  the  dashing  of  distant  oars 
murmured  melancholy  on  their  ears. 

A  repast  of  fruit  and  home-made  wine  furnished  the  table  ;  whilst 
Milwood,  by  every  artifice  in  her  power,  essayed  to  soothe  his 
melancholy,  and  turn  the  current  of  his  reflections. 

The  sensibility  of  Barnwell's  soul  was  exquisite,  and  in  some  fc- 
tal  moments  gave  passion  a  superiority  over  principle.  'Twas  thus 
that,  in  the  enchanting  caresses  of  this  beautiful  woman,  he  forgot 
all  other  existence.  Rapture  succeeded  to  bliss,  and  his  whole  soul 
yielded  to  the  ecstasies  of  love  ! 

An  hour  or  two  had  passed  away  in  these  endearments,  which 
Milwood  artfully  mingled  with  short  accounts  of  her  release  from 


130  OKORGE     BARNWELL. 

her  uncle  and  husband,  and  her  vows  of  future  fidelity  to  him. 
Still  she  hinted  the  necessity  of  a  little  longer  concealment  of  their 
connexion  from  his  friends  ;  well  aware  that  the  whole  force  of  her 
enchantment  rested  on  that  point — one  breath  of  suspicion  would 
have  ruined  all  her  deep-laid  schemes,  and  one  effort  of  his  friends 
would  have  released  her  victim  from  the  sacrifice,  to  which  fcer 
most  infamous  arts  had  doomed  him. 

There  cannot  be  a  more  dangerous  situation  for  youth,  than  that 
which,  from  any  motive,  induces  them  to  withdraw  a  confidence  in 
those,  who,  by  experience,  interest,  and  affection,  are  always  best, 
and  often  solely,  qualified  to  advise  them. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  of  course  too  late  to  return  to  Mr. 
Emery's  ;  but  this  occasioned  him  no  uneasiness,  as  from  the  ir- 
regular mode  of  living  at  watering  places,  the  individuals  of  the 
family  seldom  saw  each  other,  except  at  dinner. 

As  they  were  about  to  retire,  a  little  sail,  which  had  hovered  in 
sight  for  some  time,  made  the  shore  immediately  under  the  alcove. 
Two  persons  landed,  one  of  whom,  muffled  up  in  a  black  cloak,  said 
to  his  companion,  in  a  voice  which  Barnwell  instantly  recognised 

as  Mental's "  We  must,  if  possible,  obtain  a  lodging  at  the 

hotel  to-  night ;  or,  if  not,  a  ramble  among  the  cliffs  and  rocks  will 
occupy  the  time  till  morning." 

"  Ay,  master,"  said  the  other  ;  "  but  I'd  rather  be  comfortably 
tumbling  about  on  a  soft  feather  bed,  than  be  climbing  hard  rocks 
by  moon-light." 

"  You  might,"  said  Mental ;  "  but  think  you  now,  that  the  vil- 
lain who  seduced,  and  then  abandoned,  my  poor  child,  and  who 
with  justice  may  be  deemed  her  murderer,  sleeps  undisturbed  upon 
his  bed  of  down?  Alas!  there  is  a  difference  in  the  moulding  of 
the  human  heart,  if  it  be  so.  /,  who  am  innocent  by  comparison, 
sleep  not  without  such  dreams  of  horror,  as  chill  the  blood  to  think 
upon." 

They  then  wandered  out  of  hearing. 

"  Poor  Mental !"  said  Barnwell. 

"Mental!"  exclaimed  Milwood,  trembling. — "  Do  you  know 
that  person  then — and  is  his  name  Mental  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Barnwell.  "  'Tis  an  uncommon  name.  Do 
you  know  any  of  the  same  ?" 

"  I  did,  once!"  said  she,  with  a  sigh,  more  sorrowful  than  even 
she  could  have  feigned.  It  came  from  the  heart.  Masking  her 
feelings,  however,  she  continued — "  But  this  person  cannot  possi- 
bly be  the  Mental  I  knew  ! — Come,  my  love,  the  morning  air  grows 
cool — let  us  retire." 


OEORGE     BARN  WELL.  131 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

But  who,  for  thee.  Oh  Charity !  will  bear 

Hardships,  and  cope  with  perils,  and  with  care  ? 

Who,  for  thy  sake,  will  social  sweets  forego, 

For  scenes  of  sickness,  and  the  sights  of  wo  ? 

Who,  for  thy  sake,  will  seek  the  prison's  gloom  ? BOWLZS. 

THE  certainty  of  Mental's  being  at  Ramsgate  was  some  slender 
relief  to  the  agitated  mind  of  Barnwell.  The  next  morning,  there- 
fore, he  busied  himself  in  inquiries,  and  at  length  discovered  his 
residence.  The  whole  of  that  day,  however,  Mental  was  from 
home,  and  Barnwell  merely  left  his  address. 

The  house  and  family  of  Mr.  Emery  grew  hateful  to  his  sight ; 
his  own  reflections  were  intolerable  ;  and  the  only  resource  left  him 
was  the  society  of  Milwood.  This  consummate  mistress  of  hypoc- 
risy now  amused  him  with  the  relation  of  a  new  tale,  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  she  had  disposed  of  the  three  hundred  pounds.  Mr. 
Nehemiah  Blackmore,  of  Hatton- Garden,  was  once  more  brought  to 
figure  in  the  scene.  He  produced  a  fictitious  release  from  the  pre- 
tended husband  of  Milwood,  and  a  bond  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
payable  to  himself,  with  interest,  at  the  expiration  of  three  months. 
The  artifices  of  this  man  (who  was,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  base 
among  that  class  of  attorneys,  which  calls  down  unmerited  censure 
and  infamy  upon  the  profession  at  large)  added  to  the  arts  of  Mil- 
wood,  overpowered  the  scruples  and  hesitations  of  a  young  man 
half  distracted  with  the  perplexity  of  his  situation,  and  he  signed 
the  bond. 

He  now  considered  Milwood  as  his  wife,  and  was  only  restrained 
by  her  entreaties,  for  yet  a  little  more  delay,  from  acquainting  his 
parent  and  his  sister  with  his  situation.  He  was  determined  to 
confide  immediately  in  Mental,  and  went  early  the  next  morning  to 
his  lodgings. 

Soon  as  that  extraordinary  man  observed  Barnwell,  he  ran  to 
him,  and  shaking  him  by  the  hand — "I  have  discovered  him!" 

said  he  : "  the  monster  shall  not  escape  the  vengeance  due  to 

his  enormous  crimes.     I  will  be  revenged — a  daughter's  shame — a 
daughter's  death,  must  be  avenged — Middlcton,  or  Mental,  dies." 

"  Middleton  !"  exclaimed  Barnwell. 

"Ay!"  cried  Mental,  "Middleton — Captain  Middleton — the 
friend,  the  inmate,  the  familiar,  of  your  Emery — He  it  was  who 
destroyed  the  innocence  a  father  had  abandoned  !" 

"Astonishing!"  exclaimed  Barnwell.  "Have  you  ever  seen 
the  ouptain  !': 

"  Never,'1  said  Mental :  "  but  I  have  learnt  his  character— which 
is  a  blot  upon  the  name  of  man  !  Mark  how  accidentally  I  discov- 
ered the  betrayer.  The  distressing  scene  of  my  poor  daughter's 
death  so  fastened  its  reflection  on  my  mind,  that  my  waking 
thoughts,  and  my  midnight  dreams,  teemed  with  images  of  simi- 
lar distress  and  misery.  Thus  haunted  by  the  wretchedness  of  my 

6* 


132  GEORGE     BARNWElt. 

fellow  creatures,  I  began  to  contemplate  how  far  my  own  abilities 
might  lessen  or  alleviate  their  sufferings.  I  shuddered  to  reflect, 
how  large  a  portion  of  time  I  had  devoted  to  unavailing  sorrows 
and  remorse ,  and  how  useless  had  remained  the  propertv  I  pos- 
sessed. I  determined  immediately  to  change  my  course  of  action  ; 
and  for  the  purpose  of  discovering  those  whose  lot  I  might  amelio- 
rate, I  chose  the  path  of  that  superior  man  among  mankind,  whose 
life  was  spent  in  doing  good — the  Great  HOWARD  ! 

"  Oh,  youth,  had  you  beheld  with  me  the  spectacles  of  misery 
within  the  prisons  of  the  proud  city,  how  would  your  youthful 
heart  have  sickened  !  Tears  would  have  stained  your  cheeks ; 
and  as  you  listened  to  their  doleful  stories,  you  would  have  lifted 
up  your  eyes  to  heaven,  and  have  said — O  Love  Omnific,  why  must 
these  things  be?  The  hours  fly  too  fast,  or  I  could  crowd  thy 
memory  with  many  a  melancholy  proof  of  man's  ingratitude  !  of 
man's  revenge! — of  man's  injustice  to  his  fellow  man  !  I  could 
recount  such  tales  of  tyranny  of  Office,  the  Law's  most  torturing 
delay,  and  Justice  trampled  under  the  insulting  foot  of  iron-hearted 
Wealth,  as  should  make  '  each  hair  to  stand  on  endT  But  I  must 
confine  myself  to  one  narration — one  display  of  villany ;— T  will 
exhibit  one  black  group  of  fiends  infernal,  masked  with  the  sem- 
blance of  man's  nature,  in  which  this  Middleton  stands  infamously 
conspicuous ! 

In  the  prison,  which  is  called  the  Fleet,  there  are  ranges  of  little 
rooms,  on  the  ground  floor,  resembling  cells.  I  had  visited  several 
of  them,  and  conversed  with  their  sad  inhabitants  ;  I  say  sad,  be- 
cause there  is  a  merry  Class  of  prisoners,  who  tenant  the  upper 
rooms,  and  are  generally  young  men  of  family,  who  take  this 
method  of  confinement  merely  to  extort  the  price  of  their  release 
from  their  friends ;  or  they  are  villains,  who  riot  there,  in  com- 
plete safety,  upon  the  spoils  of  ruined  families.  Thus  the  upper 
apartments  frequently  resemble  the  galleries  of  a  hotel,  where 
waiters  are  groaning  beneath  the  weight  of  wines  and  tavern  dain- 
ties ;  whilst  the  lower  range  more  generally  assume  the  appear- 
ance of  an  ill-provided  lazar-house.  'Tis  to  one  of  these  rooms  that 
I  am  now  going  to  introduce  you. 

"  Figure  to  yourself  a  stone  arched  roof  recess,  about  ten  feet 
square,  which  contained  a  bed,  a  table,  two  or  three  chairs,  some 
boxes,  and  five  inhabitants.  One  was  an  aged  man.  bald  and 
blind  : — he  sat  in  an  armed  chair  by  the  fire  ;  one  of  his  arms  was 
wrapped  in  flannel,  being  paralytic  ;  whilst  with  the  other  hand  he 
kept  constantly  feeling  his  grand-daughter,  a  girl  of  about  nineteen, 
with  an  intelligent  countenance,  but  pale  and  sickly  from  confine- 
ment, who  was  reading  to  him.  His  son  appeared  rather  more 
than  forty,  and  was  employed  at  a  press,  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  in  cutting  smooth  the  edges  of  some  pamphlets,  which  his 
wife  was  stitching.  A  little  boy  of  six  years  old,  who  was  in  bed, 
sick  with  the  small-pox,  made  up  the  group. 

"  When  my  conductor  introduced  me,  as  a  gentleman  who  had 


GEORGE      BARN  WE  I,  I,.  133 

b«en  relieving  several  of  the  prisoners,  and  who  was  desirous  of 
knowing  the  particulars  of  their  debts,  the  old  blind  grandfather 
grasped  tightly  his  grand-daughter's  arm,  and  drew  her  nearer  to 
him.  The  woman  rose,  and  courtesied  ;  but  the  man  kept  on 
working,  without  bestowing  the  least  notice  upon  his  intruder. 
'  Who  is  the  gentleman]'  said  the  old  man.  '  One,'  said  I, '  whose 
name  is  doubtless  strange  to  you,  but  who,  possessing  the  power 
to  soften  sorrow,  has  taken  the  liberty  to  intrude  on  yours.' 

"  The  old  man  sighed.  The  poor  woman  looked  as  if  she  wish- 
ed to  welcome  me;  but  her  husband,  still  with  his  back  lov.ards 
me,  called  to  her,  in  a  rough  tone,  to  sit  down,  and  go  on  with  her 
work — '  Haven't  you  been  duped  enough  \viihjlummcry  already  ?' 
cried  he.  '  Go  on — go  on,  do — Get  these  home — let  my  father 
have  a  dinner  to-day,  for  God's  sake!'  '  Nay,  nay  Ned,'  cried 
the  old  man,  '  don't  be  cross  now — but  give  a  civil  answer  to  the 
gentleman.  Is  it  a  young  gentleman,  Patty?'  (to  his  grand- 
daughter.) '  No,  grand-father,' said  Patty.  '  Speak  to  him,  Ned,' 
said  the  old  man.  '  I've  nothing  to  say,'  said  his  son,  '  that  it  con- 
cerns him  to  hear.' 

"  '  Have  you  no  wants  my  friend?'  said  I.  '  Would  you  not  be 
happy  to  be  able  to  render  your  father  and  your  family  more  com- 
fortable than  they  are?'  '  That's  no  concern  of  yours,'  replied  he  : 
"  I  labour  from  morning  to  night,  and  they  exist  by  the  fruits  of  it 
— But,  come,  Kate,'  (to  his  wife) — '  What  do  you  snivel  at  ?  The 
brat  will  be  waking  soon,  and  you'll  not  get  these  finished.  What 
business  has  that  fellow  to  bring  people  here  to  stare  at  me  ?  Come, 
quick,  quick — I  stand  still.' 

"  Struck  with  the  uncommon  behaviour  of  this  man,  I  became 
more  curious  to  learn  his  history,  in  proportion  as  he  discovered 
less  inclination  to  reveal  it.  I  therefore  addressed  myself  to  the 
old  man  : — '  Your  son,  sir,'  said  I, '  appears  to  me  to  have  suffered  so 
much  from  false  professions  of  benevolence,  as  to  have  made  him 
spurn,  with  indignation,  all  pretentions  of  that  nature.'  '  Alack- 
a-day !  good  sir,  whoever  you  be,  I  am  sure  you  deserve  better 

treatment :— but  my  poor  Ned  ! '     '  Hold  your  tongue,  father,' 

cried  the  son. 

"  I  could  no  longer  refrain — I  approached  him,  and,  laying  my 
hand  upon  his  shoulder, '  Friend,'  said  I,  '  you  mistake  my  character  ; 
f  come  not  to  wound  your  honest  and  praiseworthy  pride — I  honour 
independence  of  spirit — I  am,  myself,  also,  a  sufferer  by  the  false 
colours  with  which  men  paint  themselves.  My  heart  is  not  wholo, 
but  my  purse  is  heavy — too  heavy  for  an  individual.  I  have  no 
prospect  of  happiness  before  me,  but  in  rendering  service  where 
merit  demands  it.  Then  (taking  his  hand)  let  me,  my  friend,  serve 

you.     I  see  your  heart — I  feel  your  feelings Come — come— trust 

me — I  am  no  deceiver. 

"  The  man  looked  steadfastly  in  my  face — I  never  before  beheld 
so  harsh  a  set  of  features — His  countenance  "was  almost,  savage. 
After  he  had  stared  at  me  a  few  minutes — '  You  may  mean  very 


134  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

well,' said  he: — "tis  possible  your  intentions  may  be  good — But 
go,  sir,  go — we  are  a  miserable  family,  and  too  far  sunk  in  wretch- 
edness for  any  rescue  but  death! — Don't  hinder  us,  then — but  go.' 
Just  then  a  man  tapped  at  the  door,  and  entered.  '  Who's  that?' 
exclaimed  the  grandfather,  again  drawing  his  lovely  charge  nearer 
to  him.  '  It's  Lawyer  Blackmore,  father,'  said  the  woman. 

At  the  name  of  Blackmore,  Barnwell  started. — "  Blackmore  ! 
did  you  say,  sir?"  cried  he. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Mental,  "  Do  you  know  such  a  person?" 

"  I — I — have  heard  of  him,"  said  Barnwell,  glowing  with  con- 
fusion. 

"  Well,"  continued  Mental,  "  this  Blackmore  entered,  and,  with 
a  supercilious  air,  approached  towards  the  old  man, — '  Once  more, 
Mr.  Norris,'  said  he,  '  I  am  come  with  offers  of  clemency  to  your 
son.  My  client  by  no  means  wishes  to  detain  him  here  ;  it  is  far 
from  his  intention  ;  it  is  by  no  means  his  wish  ;  he  don't  desire  it ; 
it  is  far  from  pleasant  to  him  ;  and  I  hope,  therefore,  you  have  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  .'  'Wicked,  wicked  man!'  cried  the 

grandfather  ; — '  you  share  in  the  guilt  of  the  transaction,  by  be- 
coming the  bearer  of  such  proposals  !' 

"  Less  calm  was  his  son.  Quitting  his  work,  he  seized  the 
lawyer  by  the  shoulders,  and,  thrusting  him  out  of  the  apartment— 
'if  ever  you  enter  this  place  again,  on  this  errand,  rascal,'  cried 
he,  '  you  will  not  quit  it  living.'  He  followed  the  lawyer  through 
the  passage  to  the  gate,  exclaiming  violently  against  him. 

"  Whilst  he  was  out  of  the  room,  his  wife  came  to  me — '  Oh, 
God  bless  you  for  your  goodness  !  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  poor 
husband  ;  but  his  brain  is  almost  turned,  sir,  by  bad  usage.  1  wish 
I  could  tell  you  our  story  ;  but  he  has  grown  so  wild,  we  dare  not 
contradict  him.  Oh,  he  is  so  altered  ! — There  was  not  a  kinder 
creature  living,  a  more  tender  and  affectionate  husband  or  father, 
till  that  bad  man,  Captain  Middleton ' 

"  Here  the  husband  returned,  and  the  poor  woman,  with  evident 
symptoms  of  fear,  went  to  her  work. 

"  '  Son,  son,'  said  the  old  man,  'I  charge  thee,  let  this  kind  gen- 
tleman know  our  story.  Come,  now,  I  pray,  do.  I  am  sure  he  is 
a  good-hearted  gentleman,  and  will  serve  thee.' 

"  '  Poor  old  man  !'  said  his  son  ;  and  you,  my  dear  girl,  (to  his 
daughter,)  my  little  boy,  too  ;  and  you,  Kate,  (to  his  wife,)  I  feel 
for  you  all  !  But,  psha,  what  but  pain  results  from  feeling  !  I 
will  not  yield  to  tenderness — Come,  come,  to  work,  to  work — I  pray 
you,  sir,  to  leave  us.' 

"  Here  there  was  a  violent  burst  of  laughter  in  the  court-yard, 
just  w'ithin  hearing.  Not  far  from  the  window,  a  party  of  young 
fellows  were  playing  with  some  of  their  mistresses,  and  their  mirth 
was  as  loud  as  obscene. 

"  '  Daughter,'  cried  the  younger  Norris,  '  stop  your  ears — Leave 
the  room.' 

"  'Oh,  no  !  no !'  cried  the  old  man,  still  holding  her. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  135 

"  '  Oh,  God!'  exclaimed  the  son — '  where  is  the  equity  of  our 
laws? — where  is  the  justice  of  our  land  ? — To  be  caged  thus,  amidst 

the  most  abandoned  of  society! — and  for  what  crime  ? Refusing 

to  prostitute  my  own  child  !' 

"'How!'  exclaimed  I. 

"  Even  as  I  have  said,'  replied  he.  '  Come,  sit  you  down,  and 
for  very  madness  will  I  tell  you  our  tale.  But  mark  me,  1  court 
not  your  pity — I  spread  no  nets  for  your  compassion  ! — That  ven- 
erable old  man,  my  father,  about  sixty  years  ago,  entered  into  busi- 
ness in  the  city  of  Canterbury.  I  was  his  only  child  ;  I  learnt  his 
art,  that  of  bookbinder  and  stationer.  My  mother  died — I  married  ; 
and,  as  my  father  declined  in  years,  I  conducted  our  concerns. 
Nineteen  years  of  time  had  passed  since  my  marriage,  when  there 
came  to  be  quartered  in  our  city  a  regiment  of  militia.  We  kept  a 
library,  and,  of  course,  our  shop  became  a  sort  of  lounge  for  the 
ladies  of  Canterbury.  The  officers  of  the  regiment  soon  discovered 
this,  and  pestered  us  with  their  company.  My  girl,  there,  though 
now  pale  and  sickly-looking,  was  then  as  fair  a  wench  as  any  in  all 
Canterbury.  Her  beauty  obtained  her  many  fulsome  flatterers,  of 
which  we  endeavoured  to  show  her  the  insignificant  value  ;  and  I 
believe  the  girl  had  sense  enough  to  treat  them,  for  the  most  part, 
with  just  that  civil  indifference  they  deserved  : — but  there  was  one 
scoundrel — a  handsome  fellow,  too — a  captain  in  the  regiment,  who 
made  a  more  than  ordinary  impression  upon  my  poor  girl's  heart. 
His  attachment  was  evident ;  his  attentions  too  conspicuous  to  be 
overlooked  ;  but  his  purposes,  his  infernal  purposes,  he  well  con- 
cealed. Under  the  mask  of  kindness  for  me  and  my  family,  he  held 
out  a  bait,  which  my  active  and  industrious  spirit  too  eagerly  grasped 
at.  About  that  time  a  librarian  at  Margate  failed  ;  the  shop  and 
business  were  to  be  disposed  of;  and  having  obtained,  by  his  fre- 
quent visits,  a  most  familiar  footing  in  our  family,  Captain  Middle- 
ton,  after  a  proper  introduction,  offered  to  lend  me  a  sum  sufficient 
to  purchase  them,  upon  the  joint  bond  of  my  father  and  myself; 
with  the  simple  condition,  that  an  elderly  lady,  his  friend,  should 
board  and  lodge  there.  Unfortunately,  we  accepted  this  treacher- 
ous offer  ;  we  completed  the  purchase  ;  and  my  father,  being  indis- 
posed, and  having  gradually  lost  his  sight,  removed  to  Margate, 
accompanied  by  my  daughter. 

"  'Twas  not.  long  ere  the  real  purpose  of  this  seeming  genero- 
sity was  exposed  by  the  following  accident  : — Captain  Middleton 
frequently  rode  from  Canterbury  to  Margate,  and  never  failed  pay- 
ing his  respects  to  the  old  lady,  whom  he  settled  in  OUT  house.  I 
myself,  having  to  superintend  the  business  both  at  Canterbury  and 
Margate,  also  had  frequent  occasions  to  be  there.  It  happened, 
that,  one  evening  as  I  walked  round  the  garden  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  I  heard  the  voice  of  Captain  Middleton,  loudly  disputing  in 
a  summer  house  with  Mrs.  Masters,  the  old  lady ;  and  as  T  passed 
the  door,  which  was  shut,  I  heard  him  distinctly  utter—'  My  God, 
madam,  I  am  trifled  with  :— nlo  you  imagine  I  have  been  paying 


136  GEORGE     BARNWKLL. 

three  hundred  pound  for  mere  gape  seed!  I  tell  you,  the  stay  of 
the  regiment  at  Canterbury  is  uncertain  ;  and  I  am  determined  to 
possess  this  jewel  before  f  quit  Kent.'  '  I  say,  sir,'  replied  the 
old  beldame,  '  that  your  impatience  will  ruin  every  thing.  The 
girl  loves  you,  I  am  certain  ;  but  she  has  been  strictly  educated, 
and  her  notions  of  virtue  are  not  to  be  overcome  so  easily  as  we 
conquered  Elinor  Mental's.' 

"  Judge,"  said  Mental  to  Barnwell  at  this  part  of  his  narrative, 
"  how  I  felt  at  that  name,  and  at  the  subsequent  remarks  ! — I  strug- 
gled hard,  and,  in  part,  concealed  my  emotion,  as  I  longed  to  hear 
the  conclusion  of  the  tale. 

"  '  Presuming,'  said  Norris,  '  upon  what  I  heard,  how  much  I 
was  interested  in  their  discourse.  I  continued  to  listen.  '  Ay,' 
cried  Middleton,  '  that  affair  was  well  managed  : — to  the  last  hour 
of  my  life,  mother  Masters,  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you  for  that  busi- 
ness ;  but  here  you  boggle  cursedly  ;  and  yet  this  chit  has  not  half 
the  cunning  of  the  jilt  Mental.'  '  True,'  repled  the  other  ;  '  but 
there  is  so  much  more  virtue  and  fuss  in  the  way  than  there  was 
with  Mental.  Besides,  here  are  a  father  and  mother  ;  Mental  was 
the  cast-away  charge  of  a  neglectful  boarding-school  governess. — 
I  repeat,  sir,  you  must  have  patience,  or  you  will  spoil  all.'  Here 
their  conversation  broke  off;  but  1  had  heard  enough  to  kindle  a 
fire  in  my  veins.  I  am  by  nature  warm,  and  impatient  of  insult. ; 
— bursting  open  the  door,  I  seized  the  villain,  and  exhausted  my 
rage  in  curses  on  his  head.  Guilt  made  him  a  coward — He  sub- 
mitted tamely  to  my  anger. — The  woman  left  the  arbour,  and  in  a 
few  hours  the  house.  In  vain  he  attempted  to  palliate  his  inten- 
tions. I  was  deaf  to  every  thing  he  said.  I  continued  roughly  to 
handle  him,  and  never  relinquished  my  hold,  till  I  had  kicked  him 
completely  out  of  doors. 

"  '  Every  hour  since  that,  the  mean  and  cowardly  villain  had 
been  planning  the  ruin  of  my  family.  His  first  step  was,  to  put 
the  bond  he  held  immediately  in  execution  against  me;  and,  as  a 
fit  engine  for  his  infernal  purpose,  he  chose  the  man  you  have  just 
now  seen  as  a  lawyer.  If  you  know  any  thing  of  law,  you  need 
not  be  told,  sir,  that  in  the  hands  of  wicked  men,  it  may  be  easily 
made  the  destruction  of  poor  debtors. 

"  'My  business  was  neglected,  in  the  attendance  necessary  to 
carry  on  a  fruitless  defence  against  his  extortions ;  my  little  capi- 
tal was  exhausted ;  my  father's  houses  were  sold  ;  my  customers 
forsook  me  ;  my  real  creditors  flocked  about  me ;  my  effects  were 
seized,  and  sold.  But  the  aim  of  this  villain  was  revenge ;  he 
therefore  preferred  seizing  my  person  ;  and  having  hunted  me  from 
one  part  of  the  kingdom  to  another  for  some  months,  he  has  at 
length  succeeded  to  the  utmost  of  his  malicious  wish.  My  poor, 
infirm  parent  will  not  quit  me,  but  prefers  this  dungeon  to  a  work- 
house. My  daughter  he  will  not  trust  a  minute  from  him,  being 
tormented  with  the  notion  that  Middleton  will  yet  obtain  her. 

"  '  I  have  had  friends,  false,  summer  friends,  whom  now  I  never 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  137 

see.  Judge  then,  sir,  if  there  is  not  some  excuse  for  my  ferocious 
disposition.  I  am  like  a  hunted  beast  taken  in  the  toils;  and  have 
lost  all  hope  in  heaven,  all  confidence  in  man.  I  labour  hard  to 
gain  a  slender  sustenance  for  my  family;  and  here,  even  here, my 
pursuer  worries  me  with  his  damned  proposals,  to  release  me  from 
my  cage,  upon  yielding  my  poor  child  a  prey  to  his  lewd  desires. 
But  rather  would  I  dig  her  grave  with  my  own  hands — ay,  rather 
would  I  dig  one  general  gulf,  and  plunge  wife,  father,  children, 
self,  all  living,  to  its  bottom,  than  prostitute  the  child  I  have  given 
birth  to?" 

"  '  Is  there  such  a  villain  in  existence,'  said  T,  '  as  this  Middle- 
ton?  Where  is  his  residence?" 

''  '  Six  months,'  replied  Norris,  '  1  have  been  immured  in  this 
prison  ;  of  course  he  is  living,  but  where,  I  know  not.  He  has 
never  been  here  himself,  but  all  his  proposals  are  made  through 
the  medium  of  the  lawyer  Blackmore. 

"  '  I  have  heard  that  the  wicked  wretch  who  has  been  his  assis- 
tant in  many  a  scene  of  infamy,  the  Mrs.  Masters,  is  now  dange- 
rously ill  at  Ramsgate,  and  lingers  under  all  the  horrors  of  remorse, 
in  expectation  of  her  dissolution.' 

"  '  At  Ramsgate  ! — Can  you  address  me  to  her,  my  friend  ?'  said 
I.  '  I  have  inducements  to  see  this  woman,  of  which  you  have  no 
conception.  You  have  mentioned,  in  your  narrative,  the  name  of 
one  whom  I  ought  to  have  cherished  in  my  own  bosom,  but  whom 
I  abandoned  to  the  loose  guardianship  of  a  hireling.  The  Miss 
Mental,  alluded  to  by  the  base  Mrs.  Masters,  must  have  been  my 
poor,  deserted  daughter.' 

"'Gracious  goodness!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Norris.  lifting  up  her 
eyes  ;  '  and  what  has  become  of  the  poor  creature  !' 

"  '  Dead  ! — to  my  comfort — dead  !' — exclaimed  I.  '  But  if  her 
seducer  lives,  and  if,  by  the  instructions  of  this  Masters,  I  can  dis- 
cover him,  vengeance  shall  yet  overtake  him. — This  very  night  I 
will  set  off  for  Ramsgate  ;  and  a  part  of  the  vengeance  I  will  hurl 
on  this  wretch,  shall  be  the  deliverance  of  your  persecuted  family.' 

"'Alas!  good  gentleman,  you  know  not  how  deeply  our  dis- 
tresses have  involved  us,'  said  the  elder  Norris.  '  A  thousand 
pounds  would  hardly  clear  us ;  and  then  my  poor  Ned  would  be 
ashamed  to  see  Canterbury  again.' 

"  'No  !'  exclaimed  I,  '  he  shall  not  be  ashamed.' — I  had  resolv- 
ed upon  my  conduct;  and  contriving  to  slip  my  purse  into  Mrs. 
Norris's  hand,  unobserved  by  her  husband,  I  took  my  leave  of  these 
victims  of  iniquitous  power.  The  necessary  directions  for  their 
liberation  were  given  ;  and  T  arrived  at  Ramsgate  in  time  to  hear 
from  the  lips  of  the  dying  wretch,  Masters,  the  horrible  tale  of  my 
Elinor's  destruction.  I  obtained  the  address  of  Middleton,  which 
was  in  London.  I  returned  thither  the  next  day,  and  traced  him 
to  Emery's,  in  Portland  Place,  where  I  learnt  that  he  had  accom- 
panied the  family  hiiher. 

"  After  spending  some  time  in  a  necessary  attention  to  Norris's 


138  GEORGE     BARKWELL. 

family,  which  will  soon  be  at  liberty,  I  returned  to  Margate,  and 
from  thence  in  a  little  fishing  boat  to  this  place." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  discovery  !"  said  Barnwell,  when  Men- 
tal concluded." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mental ;  "  and  I  am  determined  to  act  precisely 
upon  it. — Where  is  Emery's  house? — I'll  see  this  Middleton  to- 
day." 

"  I  will  conduct  you,  if  you  please;"  said  Barnwell.  "But, 
before  we  go,  if  you  could  bestow  an  hour's  attention  upon  a  cir- 
cumstance that  involves  in  its  consequences  my  future  destiny " 

"  That  Milwood  you  allude  to — I  have  not  forgotten,  amidst  my 
own  concerns,  your  danger,  youth !  Nor,  believe  me,  am  I  indif- 
ferent to  your  welfare.  If  you  will  unburden  your  breast  of  its 
anxieties,  you  shall  experience  from  me  all  that  a  fond  parent  is 
desirous  of  bestowing  on  his  son." 

Barnwell  related  every  occurrence  that  had  taken  place  since  his 
connexion  with  Milwood. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

Oh  !  I  shall  never,  never  hear  her  voice  ! 

The  spring-time  shall  return,  the  isles  rejoice ; 

But  faint  and  weary  I  shall  meet  the  morn, 

And,  mid  tlie,cheering  sunshine,  weep  forlorn  ! — BOWLES. 

WHEN  Barnwell  had  concluded  his  story,  having  concealed  no- 
thing from  Mental,  but  the  means  by  which  he  obtained  the  three 
hundred  pounds,  the  latter  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  former,  and  in 
an  affectionate  tone  of  voice — "  Beware,  youth,  beware  !"  said  he. 
"  I  shall  think  on  your  story  :  in  the  mean  time  lead  me  to  Middle- 
ton." 

Upon  their  arrival  at  Mr.  Emery's,  they  were  surprised  to  find 
the  whole  house  in  confusion.  Maria  Freeman,  whose  health  had 
been  some  time  declining,  was  that  morning  so  extremely  indis- 
posed, as  to  be  confined  to  her  bed  with  symptoms  of  a  delirious 
fever.  Upon  their  entering  the  parlour,  Miss  Emery,  and  her 
mamma,  immediately  began  a  most  lamentable  duet  upon  the  mon- 
strous disagreeableness  of  people's  being  ill — 

"  It  makes  one,"  said  Miss  Emery,  "  so  vapourish,  to  see  the 
old  doctors,  and  the  apothecaries,  and  nurses! — " 

"  Oh  !  absolutely,"  cried  her  mamma,  "  it's  the  most  excessive 
dull  thing  in  the  world  ! — May  be  she  may  die,  too ! — Really, 
Emma,  I'll  return  to  the  Pavilion  :  I  do  hate  any  thing  that  reminds 
one  of  one's  latter  end.  Where's  Charlotte'? — I  hope  she  is  not  so 
mad  as  to  be  in  Miss  Freeman's  chamber !" 

At  that  instant  Charlotte  entered — "  So,  Mr.  Barnwell,"  said 
she,  "  here's  h'avoc  you've  made !  Why,  sir,  if  Miss  Freeman 
dies,  you'll  be  indicted  for  murder?  She  is  screaming  after  Mr. 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  139 

Barn  well,  do  you  know,  in  such  a  violent  manner,  that  all  the  old 
Quizes  are  frightened  out  of  their  wits." 

"  What's  all  this  trifling?"  cried  Mental,  starting  from  his  chair, 
and  thumping  his  oaken  stick  on  the  floor.  "  Show  me  to  Captain 
Middleton,  sir — I  did  not  come  here  to  do  penance,  in  listening  to 
the  vapid  effusions  of  emoty  heads  and  iron  hearts — Show  me  to 
Middleton!" 

The  ladies  were  quite  terrified — "  Lord  bless  me,  Mr.  Barnwell," 
cried  Mrs.  Emery,  "  Who  have  you  brought  here?" 

"  This  gentleman,  madam,  has  very  particular  business  with  Cap- 
tain Middleton." 

"  Do,  pray,  then,  have  the  goodness  to  show  him  into  the  libra- 
ry. Mr.  Emery  and  the  Captain  are  both  there." 

At  the  door  of  the  library  Barnwell  announced,  that  a  gentleman 
desired  to  see  Captain  Middleton ;  and  Mr.  Emery  was  politely 
retiring — 

"  Let  me  request  your  presence,  sir,"  said  Mental :  the  "  business 
I  am  about  to  enter  on  requires  evidence." 

"  Mr.  Emery  returned.  Captain  Middleton  bowed  to  Mental, 
and  entreated  him  to  sit. — Barnwell,  by  desire  of  the  latter,  also 
was  seated.  After  a  pause 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Mental,  "  I  am  commissioned  with  the  exe- 
cution of  a  most  unpleasant  business.  A  person,  whom  I  sincerely 
regard,  has  sustained  a  most  serious  injury.  He  was  unfortunately 
deprived,  by  death,  of  a  most  amiable  wife,  at  a  period  when  her 
maternal  attentions  began  to  be  loudly  called  for  by  their  daughter, 
a  beautiful  girl  of  three  years  old.  His  Affairs,  about  the  same 
time,  compelled  this  person  to  leave  England  for  some  years  :  being 
unwilling  to  take  his  daughter  with  him  abroad,  and  having  no 
female  relative  or  friend  with  whom  he  could  deposit  his  heart's 
sole  treasure,  he  was  compelled  to  place  his  child  with  the  govern- 
ess of  a  respectable  boarding-school.  Here  she  remained,  and  in- 
creased in  beauty  and  accomplishments  as  she  grew  in  years. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  her  father  returned,  after  a  long  absence,  to 
his  native  home,  and  settled  in  affluent  circumstances,  in  a  retired 
part  of  the  country.  Remaining  still  a  widower,  for  that,  and  pos- 
sibly for  other  reasons,  he  did  not  immediately  after  his  return  send 
for  his  daughter  from  the  seminary,  where,  he  was  convinced,  she 
was  improving  herself  in  the  attainments  adapted  to  her  sex  and 
fortune. 

"  Thus  she  continued  at  school  till  she  was  about  seventeen  years 
of  age.  You'll  say,  perhaps,  her  father  was  to  blame  to  continue 
the  care  of  her,  at  that  thoughtless  season  of  her  life,  in  the  hands 
of  a  mere  school  mistress.  Events  have  proved  that  it  was  wrong , 
but  he,  a  sort  of  recluse,  little  imagined  that  there  were  beings 
base  enough,  among  mankind,  to  plan  the  slow  destruction  of  inno- 
cence and  beauty.  We,  who  are  men  of  the  world,  know  things 
better,  Captain  Middleton.  We  know,  that  girls  at  the  age  of 


140  GEORGE     BARNWELL, 

seventeen,  under  no  other  control  than  that  of  a  negligent  governess 
or  a  depraved  teacher,  are  very  comeatabte  articles — Eh  !*' 

There  was  an  expressive  sneer  that  accompanied  this  last  sen- 
tence, which  made  Middleton  tremble. 

"Sir!  Eh!"  cried  the  latter  ;  "  I  don't  clearly  understand  your 
drift." 

"  You  will  soon,"  said  Mental.  "  I  meant  merely  to  remark  on 
the  extreme  ignorance  of  the  old  fool,  who  could  trust  such  a 
charming  temptation  in  the  way  of  us  red  coats!  (for  I've  served 
myself  in  the  army)  and  then  be  surprised  at  its  consequences. 

"  But  to  proceed  with  my  tale  : — In  the  neighbourhood  of  this 
young  lady's  residence  there  was  quartered  a  regiment  of  militia, 
which  was  graced  by  a  captain  of  most  elegant  exterior  ;  and  per- 
fectly accomplished;  that  is,  he  had  run  one  man  through  the  body, 
and  wounded  several ;  had  figured  in  a  crim.  con.  action,  knew  the 
use  of  loaded  dice,  and  would  see  you  a  three-bottle  man  under  the 
table. 

"  For  the  accommodation  of  these  dashing  gentlemen,  there  are 
certain  beings,  who  assume  to  themselves  the  name  of  women,  and, 
under  the  character  and  appearance  of  gentlewomen,  contrive  an 
introduction  to  the  young  and  inexperienced  part  of  their  sex,  with 
the  infernal  design  of  debauching  their  morals,  and  rendering  them 
an  easy  prey  to  seduction.  Unfortunately  for  my  poor  friend,  a 
wretch  of  this  description  found  means  to  gain  the  confidence  of  his 
daughter,  whose  volatile  disposition,  and  full  flow  of  careless 
spirits,  exposed  a  heart,  unguarded  by  principle,  to  the  easy  con- 
quest of  this  harridan. 

"  The  captain  was  introduced  to  the  poor  victim,  as  a  friend  of 
this  creature's;  and,  to  be  brief,  the  consequences  were,  the  ruin 
of  the  daughter,  and  the  consummation  of  many  miseries  to  the 
heart-broken  father!" 

"  Unhappy  man  !"  said  Mr.  Emery :  "  is  he  still  living?" 

"  You  shall  hear,"  cried  Mental. — "  The  arts  of  those  experi- 
enced practitioners  in  iniquity  were  so  refined,  that  the  deluded  girl 
eloped  from  the  house  of  her  governess,  and  not  one  probable  clue 
to  a  discovery  was  left. — You  are  a  father,  sir;  Captain  Middleton, 
I  believe,  is  not :  but  any  man,  who  has  the  common  feelings  of  his 
nature,  may  picture  to  himself  the  agony  of  her  parent,  when  he 
heard  the  dread  tidings  of  her  fall,  and  was  doomed  to  remain  igno- 
rant of  her  fate !" 

Captain  Middleton,  upon  whom  Mental  all  along  kept  his  stern 
eyes  fixed,  began  now  to  half  rise  from  his  chair,  wiped  his  face 
with  his  handkerchief,  twirled  the  chain  of  his  watch  round  his  fin- 
gers, and  betrayed  various  other  symptoms  of  uneasiness — Mental 
continued — 

"  But,  gentlemen,  there  was  an  hour  approaching  replete  with 
yet  more  piercing  anguish  for  his  soul.  The  unhappy  parent  lived 
to  see  that  daughter — but,  Oh,  God  !  what  a  sight — He  beheld  her, 
suffering  the  last  agonies  of  death,  on  the  bare  floor  of  a  mean 


GEORGE      BARNWELL.  141 

hovel ,  surrounded  by  misery  and  want !  and  whilst  the  poison  of 
prostitution  consumsd  her  frame,  the  horrors  of  reflection  on  a 
guilty  course  agonized  her  mind !  He  saw  her  die  !  ! — If,  then, 
the  wretched  parent,  at  that  moment,  had  seen  and  known  the 
author  of  this  misery,  should  you,  gentlemen,  have  been  surprised 
to  hear,  that,  in  the  phrensy  of  his  despair,  he  had  imbrued  his 
hands  in  the  villain's  b'ood?  But 'twas  not  so.  Ere  he  became 
acquainted  with  the  story  I  have  related  to  you,  his  agonies  had 
mellowed  into  grief,  his  phrensy  into  settled  melancholy. 

"  Meanwhile  the  perpetrator  of  this  deed  was  busily  employed 
in  fresh  pursuits  of  the  same  nature,  aided  by  the  same  infernal 
spirit,  in  the  form  of  woman.  Undaunted  by  any  of  the  vu'gar 
prejudices  of  humanity,  or  feelings  ;  unchecked  by  the  incommodi- 
ous principles  of  honour,  or  virtue,  he  plunged  boldly  on,  to  prose- 
cute the  ruin  of  more  beauty  ;  and  further  to  extend  the  desola- 
tions of  domsstic  peace— a  family,  raised  by  his  perfidious  promises 
to  the  pinnacle  of  prosperous  hopes,  was  hurled  from  thence  to  the 
abyss  of  wretchedness,  poverty,  and  the  views  of  endless  thraldom : 
this  was  the  pastime  of  the  all-daring  villain  !" 

Captain  Middleton's  behaviour  now  expressed  those  feelings  he 
could  no  longer  smother. — Starting  from  his  chair — "  You  have 
fixed  your  eyes  on  me,  sir,  in  a  manner  I  am  unaccustomed  to,  and 
accompany  your  dismal  stories  with  such  significant  glances  upon 
ma — I  can't  mistake  their  meaning  :  but,  sir,  whoever  this  friend  of 
yours  may  be,  he  is  deceived,  if  he  has  insinuated  the  most  distant 
charge  of  this  sort  upon  a  man  of  my  respectability  !" 

"  Your  respectability!    ha,  ha!"  cried  Mental,  with  a  sneer. 

"  D n  me,  sir"  cried  Middleton,  "  I  will  not  brook  this  con- 
duct. Let  me  see  this  injured  father,  and  I  will  confront  him  to 
his  face!" 

''  You  will — then  do,"  said  Mental.  "  Behold  him,  thou  reptile ! 
behold  him  here  !  !" 

As  he  spoke,  he  rose  with  a  majestic  air,  and,  folding  his  arms, 
stood  opposite  to  Middleton,  with  a  look  expressive  of  the  deepest 
indignation  ;  whilst  the  astonished  captain  staggered  hack  a  full 
pace,  and  trembled,  Mr.  Emery  remaining  in  complete  amazement. 
A  silence  of  some  minutes  ensued. 

"  The  names  of  Masters  and  Norris  will  convince  you,  sir,"  said 
Mental,  "  your  iniquities  are  no  longer  secrets.  The  steps  that 
have  led  to  this  discovery  I  shall  not  retrace.  I  know  you  are  the 
seducer  and  betrayer  of  my  child,  the  oppressor  of  innocence,  and, 
this  instant.  I  demand  the  paltry  satisfaction  of  your  life." 

Middleton  remained  dumb.  Mr.  Emery,  extremely  terrified, 
attempted  to  interpose. 

"Silence,  man!"  cried  Mental:  "you  don't  know  me.  T  am 
not  one  who  frames,  destroys,  and  frames  anew  his  resolutions  !  I 
come  not,  in  the  moment  of  passion,  to  wreak  revenge,  but  calmly 
to  inflict  upon  a  villain  the  punishment  of  death  !" 

"  You  come  to  murder,  then  ?"  cried  Emery. 


142  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  Sir!"  said  Middleton,  after  a  long  struggle  of  cowardice — 
"  Sir — 1 — see — that — you  are — determined  not  to  listen  to  any 
thing  I  offer  in  my  defence ;  and,  therefore,  name  your  place 
and  time,  and  take  what  satisfaction  you  please." 

'•  To-morrow,  at  break  of  day,  which  will  be  four  o'clock — be- 
hind the  mill,  two  fields  from  the  adjoining  lane,"  said  Mental,  in 
a  firm  tone. 

"  I'll  meet  you  there,"  said  Middleton,  who,  on  this  occasion, 
was  indeed  a  coward  ;  though,  till  this  moment,  he  had  always 
retained  the  credit  of  great  courage.  But  there  was  an  inexpressi- 
ble something  in  the  countenance  of  the  father,  which  the  seducer 
of  the  daughter  trembled  to  gaze  upon,  in  spite  of  his  insensibility 
to  all  virtuous  emotions. 

"  Shall  we  meet  alone,  or  shall  those  who  are  now  present  at- 
tend us  there?"  asked  Mental. 

"  Is  it  impossible  to  prevent  this  meeting  V  said  Emery.  "  Can 
no  concessions — no  recompense " 

"Are  you  a  father,"  interrupted  Mental,  "  and  you  talk  of 
recompense ? — If,  indeed,  he  has  power  to  raise  the  dead,  and  make 
that  pure  and  spotless,  which  his  lust  has  sullied,  there  might  be 
meaning  in  your  speech  : — I  know  no  other  recompense  that  he  can 
offer,  or  I  can  receive." 

At  length  the  meeting  was  arranged.  It  was  agreed  that  Mr. 
Emery  and  Barnwell  should  attend;  and  Mental  retired. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

Innocence,  when  once  thy  tender  flower 

The  sickly  taint  has  toucnea,  where  is  that  pow'r 

That  shall  bring  hack  its  fragrance,  or  restore 

The  tints  of  loveliness — that  shiiie  no  more  ? — BOWLES. 

No  sooner  had  Mental  left  the  house,  than  Mrs.  Emery  and  her 
daughters,  attended  by  their  shadows,  Morley  and  Eastwood,  rushed 
into  the  library,  to  learn  the  errand  of  so  strange  a  Qwtz,  as  he 
was  termed  by  Lord  Morley. 

It  was  in  vain  to  attempt  concealment,  and,  therefore,  partly  by 
Emery,  partly  by  Middleton,  and  partly  by  Barnwell,  the  whole 
history  was  related  of  BarnwelPs  first  acquaintance  with  him — of 
the  loss  of  his  wife — the  fate  of  his  daughter — and  the  result  of  that 
morning's  visit. 

'•A  duel?"  screamed  Mrs.  Emery.  "Captain  Middleton,  it 
shall  not  take  place — Run,  my  Lord — Run,  Mr.  Eastwood,  to  that 
fat,  ugly  fellow  of  a  justice  we  saw  yesterday ;  and,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  entreat  him  to  get  all  the  constables  in  the  place  ready  to  keep 
the  peace." 

"  I  insist  upon  it,  my  Lord,  you  do  not  obey  such  orders — as  you 
will  answer  to  my  honour.  I  must  confess  that  I,  as  well  as  many 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  143 

others,  have  been  guilty  of  improprieties  in  my  younger  days,  of 
which  1  readily  acknowledged  this  one  of  the  worst.  As  to  the 
death  of  the  girl,  God  knows,  I  was  perfectly  ignorant,  and  of  her 
want,  for  I  have  not  seen  her  for  years  :  in  fact,  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten her.  The  encountering  the  old  man  in  this  way  is  awk- 
ward, certainly  very  awkward  ;  but  it  is  unavoidable." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel  wretch,  you  !"  cried  Mrs.  Emery — "  when  you 
know  the  value  of  your  life  to  Mr.  Emery,  to  myself,  to  thousands 
— thus  to  sport  with  it !  A  figure  like  yours,  Captain  Middleton, 
to  be  shot  at  by  such  an  old,  ugly,  wizard-looking  being  as  that — It 
shall  not  be — I  will  go  myself,  this  moment,  to " 

"  La,  Ma' !"  said  Miss  Emery — "  Do  you  think  Captain  Mid- 
dleton can't  level  a  pistol  better  than  old  Mental?  I  have  not  the 
least  fear  but  he'll  kill  the  old  brute." 

"  And,  then,  will  he  not  be  obliged  to  fly  the  kingdom?" 

"  Oh,  only  for  a  little  time,  till  it's  blown  over?" 

"  Only  look  at  Mr.  Barn  well !"  cried  Charlotte,  who  had  been 
watching  his  countenance  some  time  :  "  really,  now,  by  the  exces- 
sive length  of  his  visage,  one  would  imagine  he  were  going  to  fight 
a  duel." 

In  fact,  Barnwell's  mind  was  absorbed  in  very  different  medita- 
tions. He  was  anxiously  calculating  the  time  that  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  dispatched  the  jewels  to  London,  and  reflecting  on  the 
horrible  consequences,  should  the  man  prove  dishonest.  Aroused, 
by  this  remark  of  Charlotte,  from  his  reverie,  he  unfortunately  be- 
trayed his  absence  by  a  sham  laugh,  and  exclaiming — "  A  duel ! 
What  duel?" 

"There's  a  hard-hearted  wretch,  now!"  said  Charlotte,  "to 
laugh  at  such  a  serious  thing  as  a  duel!" 

"Whatever  the  event  of  to-morrow  may  be,"  said  Middleton, 
"  this  trifling  upon  the  subject  is  unbecoming.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind,  madam  :  (to  Mrs.  Kmery)  I  am  bound  in  honour  to  give  the 
meeting ;  and  whoever  attempts  to  prevent  it,  will  throw  a  stain 
upon  my  character,  that  nothing  but  suicide  will  efface." 

Mrs.  Emery  shrieked  and  fainted  ;  her  daughters  flew  to  her 
assistance,  and  the  party  separated.  Mr.  Emery  gave  directions  to 
Barnwell  to  discharge  some  debts  of  Captain  Middleton's,  and  re- 
tiring with  the  captain,  to  arrange  some  mutual  concerns,  he  desired 
Barnwell  to  let  him  have  his  accounts  to  examine  in  the  evening. 

Upon  the  arrival  of  the  post,  Barnwell  was  surprised  to  receive  a 
letter,  in  a  strange  hand-writing;  but  his  surprise  was  soon  lost  in 
stupefaction  when  he  read  the  contents,  as  follow — 

"  SIR— You  liavc  been  most  grossly  abused  by  the  person,  whoever  it  may  be,  that 
consigned  the  jewels  to  you.  Their  value  is  notliin?  more  than  the  irold  and  silver  in 
which  they  are  set,  about  seven  or  eight  pounds — Tlie  stones  are  all  sham — Having 
business  that  will  keep  me  here  a  day  or  two  longer,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  apprise 
you  of  this  affair.  "  I  am,  sir,  yours.  TIM.  BROWN." 

Some  minutes  elapsed  before  Barnwell  removed  his  eyes  from 
the  paper  ;  and  when  he  did,  they  were  covered  by  a  thick  film- 


144  GEORGE      BARN  WELL. 

that  obscured  every  object  around  him.     Cold  sweats  succeeded  ; 
and  he  had  nearly,  very  nearly  fainted. 

O,  Milwood  !"  exclaimed  he—"  Milwood,  thou  hast  destroyed 


me 


i" 


He  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  immediately  ran  to  the  little 
cottage.  Breathless  and  pale,  he  approached  the  siren,  with  the 
letter  open  in  his  hand,  and  gave  it'her  to  peruse.  With  the  most 
complete  hypocrisy  imaginable,  she  shrieked— -she  raved — and  im- 
precated curses  on  the  man,  though  the  sham  jewels  had  been  made 
to  her  own  orders.  She  protested  most  solemnly,  and  impiously 
called  on  Heaven  to  witness  her  oaths,  that  they  were  her  mother's 
jewels;  and  either  the  man,  she  said,  must  have  exchanged  them, 
or  some  secret  thief  in  her  former  residences — 

"  Can  my  Barnwell,"  said  she  "  for  a  moment  harbour  a  thought 
so  much  beneath  his  liberal  nature  to  indulge,  as  to  suppose  me 
privy  to  a  fraud  ?  What  is  there,  Barnwell,  in  my  nature  like  such 
mean  dishonesty?  Reflect,  and  answer,  sir,  whether  a  person  of 
my  spirit,  even  were  she  vicious,  would  stoop  to  the  paltry,  pilfer- 
ing tricks  of  a  Ring-dropper?  Barnwell,  it  would  have  hurt  me 
less  had  you  accused  me  of  a  murder!" 

"Nay,  Milwood,"  said  the  youth,  "I  have  not  accused  you; 
but  I  am  distracted  by  the  event !  What  can  be  done  ?  Mr.  Emery 
has  ordered  me  this  evening,  this  very  evening,  to  make  up  my  ac- 
counts.— I  am  lost  forever  !  Never  more  can  I  return  to  him — And 
whither,  oh,  whither  can  I  go  !" 

In  the  utmost  agony,  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  and  leaned 
his  head  upon  the  table.  Milwood,  affecting  the  profoundest 
thought,  walked  about  the  room. — "  The  deficiency  must  not  be 
known,"  cried  she.  "  We  must  prevent  this  discovery  by  any 
means." 

"  I  see  no  possible  way,'*  said  Barnwell. 

"  I  see  but  one,"  said  she  ;  "  and  that  you  will  scruple  to  adopt. 
'Tis,  indeed,  one  that,  upon  a  small  necessity,  ought  not  to  be  re- 
sorted to  ;  but  when,  if  adopted,  it  will,  to  a  certainty,  prevent 
disgrace  to  yourself  and  family,  the  utter  ruin  of  all  your  future 
prospects,  the  horrors  of  a  prison,  and  the  character  of  a  thief — I 
think,  self-preservation  calls  on  us  to  adopt  it." 

"  Name  it,"  said  Barnwell. 

"  FORGERY." 

Starting  from  the  chair,  with  all  the  wildness  of  despair  express- 
ed in  his  countenance — "  Wretch  ! — Sorceress  ! — Away — Away  ! — 
There  is  a  dreadful  ruin  waits  on  thy  accursed  beauty,  and  I  now 
see  it  in  all  its  horrors !" 

He  would  have  left  the  room;  but  Milwood,  seizing  his  arm, 
detained  him. 

"  B?rnwell,  were  I  that  demon  your  despair  now  exhibits  to  your 
mind,  I  snould  at  once  relinquish  you.  What  more  could  such  a 
spirit  wish,  than  that,  in  this  disordered  state,  you  should  seek 
your  master.  Detection  and  disgrace,  chains  and  imprisonment, 


GEORGE     B  A  R  N  W  E  L  L  .  145 

would  follow;  but  no,  Barnwell! — too  closely  woven  is  my  own 
destiny  with  thine  to  suffer  this  :  too  deeply  impressed  upon  my 
heart.  Oh,  youth,  are  thy  endearments,  thus  to  be  relinquished. 
And,  by  the  Power  that  sees  that  heart,  I  swear,  no  fate  shall 
separate  us.  No,  though  thine  obstinate  resistance  should  doom 
thee  to  the  unwholesome  damps  of  a  dark  dungeon — should  load 
these  manly  limbs  with  fetters — I  would  follow  thee,  and  share  in 
all  thy  wretchedness.  I — innocently  though  it  be — yet,  I  have  been 
the  cause  of  your  calamities  ;  and  never,  never  will  I  yield  my  title 
to  a  sharo  of  the  bitter  draught." 

With  all  the  softest,  tsnderest  expressions,  she  hung  upon  him  ; 
she  embraced  him,  and  bedewed  his  cheeks  with  her  tears.  The 
soul  of  Barnwell  was  in  an  agony— He  sighed — he  sobbed  aloud — 
He  called  upon  his  mother,  his  Eliza,  and  invoked  the  departed 
spirit  of  his  father  to  direct  him  ! 

"  Oh,  think  upon  the  agonies  of  thy  dear  friends!"  cried  she. 
"  Can  you  reflect  a  moment  on  the  phrenzy  that  will  seize  your  ven- 
erable mother — 'the  pangs  that  will  rend  your  sister's  heart,  when 
they  hear  a  son,  a  brother " 

"  Hold,  hold,"  cried  Barnwell.  "  They  must  not,  shall  not ! 

Tell  me  the  means  that  can  prevent  discovery Quick,  quick, 

unfold  them,  that,  without  the  possibility  of  a  retraction,  I  may 
pledge  my  soul's  eternal  welfare  to  their  adoption !" 

"  Suppose  a  bill  of  exchange  was  drawn  upon  Mr.  Emery;  say 
for  five  hundred  pounds  at  two  months,  could  you  not  imitate  his 
acceptance  ? — If  so,  I  would  myself  undertake  to  negotiate  it ;  and 
long  ere  it  became  due  we  could  provide  means  to  prevent  its  being 
presented  for  payment ;  and  thus  the  whole  transaction  would  re- 
main a  secret  within  our  own  breasts — You  hesitate  ! — " 

"  Oh,  Mil  wood,  what  a  proposal !  Miserable  wretch,  that  I  am, 
how  am  I  fallen,  that  I  can  with  patience  listen  to  it !" 

"Is  this  a  time  for  abstract  reasoning?  Is  this  a  moment  to 
moralize,  Barnwell?  If  you  are  not  determined  to  surrender  every 
hope — if  you  are  not  determined  to  expose  yourself,  and  all  that 
are  dear  to  you,  to  infamy — you  must  act — " 

"  I  do  not  hesitate  at  the  crime — for  I  am  sunk  beneath  those 
scruples  ;  but  I  tremble  at  the  dreadful  consequences  of  its  discov- 
ery." 

"Absurd  argument!"  said  Mihvood.  "A  present  and  almost 
instant  discovery  must  take  place,  if  we  do  not  resort  to  this,  or 
some  similar  preventive.  Against  the  chance  of  future  detection 
there  are  ten  thousand  odds.  Time  at  least  will  be  gained  ;  in 
which  we  may  guard  ourselves  against  the  worst  consequences. 
Ruin  is  at  the  door;  and  you  are  weakly  arguing  if  it  be  wise  to 
fly  from  it,  because  there  is  a  possibility  we  may  again  encounter 
it." 

"  But,"  said  Barnwell,  "  even  if  I  were  to  adopt  this  dreadful 
alternative,  how  are  you  sure  that  you  could  procure  money  for  this 
bill?" 


146  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  I  will  engage  for  three  hundred  of  the  five  in  less  than  six 
hours'  time." 

"  But — but — I — cannot — it  is  impossible  !" 

"  Barnwell,  this  weakness  is  unworthy  of  your  nature. — Deter- 
mine— Are  you  prepared  to  tell  Mr.  Emery,  that  you  have  robbed 
him  of  three  hundred  pounds? — Are  you  prepared  to  meet  the  an- 
ger of  your  benefactor,  the  curses  of  a  parent,  the  madness  of  your 
sister  1 — " 

"  Hold — hold — for  Heaven's  sake — or  you  will  drive  me  to  com- 
mit that,  in  desperation,  which,  on  reflection  to  have  done,  will 
plunge  me  to  the  grave  of  a  suicide  !" 

"  And  rather,  Barnwell,  much  rather,  would  I  see  you  dead  at 
my  feet  by  your  own  hands,  than  behold  you  among  felons  at  the 
bar  of  justice,  a  spectacle  to  a  gaping  multitude  !" 

"  O  God  !  that  must  not  be  ! — He  would  not,  he  could  not,  sure- 
ly, proceed  to  such  extremity  !" 

"  Will  you  then,  trust  to  the  hazard  of  his  clemency  a  matter  of 
such  import? — Puerile  folly '.—Barnwell,  I  will  myself  save  you 
from  the  effects  of  your  own  cowardice." 

She  produced  a  stamp  from  her  pocket-book,  and  drew  a  bill  of 
exchange  upon  Mr.  Emery,  payable  in  two  months,  for  five  hun- 
dred pounds." 

In  vain  Barnwell  asked  her  a  string  of  questions — How  she  came 
by  the  stamp — for  what  purpose  she  could  have  it — if  she  had  ever 
indulged  such  a  thought  before — and  many  others. 

"  When  you  receive  the  money  to  replace  what  you  have  taken, 
I  will  answer  all  these  jealous  questions ;  till  then  I  am  dumb. — 
There,"  (having  finished  it,)  "I  have  drawn  it  in  the  fictitious 
namq.  of  Emily  D'Alembert,  and  dated  it  from  Southampton.  I 
shall  pass  it  as  the  signature  of  an  emigrant  friend.  Now,  in  a 
^word,  will  you  put  Mr.  Emery's  acceptance  to  it,  or  not?" 

"  Oh,  Milwood  !— over  what  a  dreadful  precipice  do  we  hover!'' 

"  And  yet,  insensible  to  the  danger,  you  loiter  upon  its  very 
brink.-^-Barnwell,  if  yon  have  the  courage  of  a  man  ;  nay,  if  you 
merely  possess  the  policy  of  a  coward,  hesitate  no  longer.  If  you 
persist  in  these  obstinate  scruples — by  every  thing  most  sacred,  I 
swear,  these  eyes  shall  never  view  the  misery  that  awaits  you  I—- 
If you  leave  this  room  with  a  refusal,  I  will  not  quit  it  living !  I 
haje  endured  wretchedness  enough  already  in  this  accursed  world 
of  wo,  and  will  endure  no  more.  This  steel  is  my  sovereign  anti- 
dote against  all  future  misery.  I  will  henceforth  live  happy — or 
will  cease  to  live!" 

She  drew  the  dagger  from  her  bosom,  and  in  the  act,  threw  back 
that  part  of  her  dress  that  concealed  the  most  lovely  neck  and 
breasts,  that  ever  kindled  anarchy  of  desires  in  the  heart  of  man  ! 
Fixing  the  dagger's  point  to  her  left  breast — 

"  Barnwell,  my  fate  is  in  your  hands — Approach  me  not — You 
know  me  resolute — If  you  stif  one  pace  from  the  table,  that  mo- 
ment the  dagger  shall  be  shoathed  here ;  nor  will  I  remove  its 


GEORGE      B  A  R  N  W  E  T,  I,  .  147 

point  till  you  accept  the  bill,  or  quit  the  room  : — Now,  BarnwelJ, 
choose." — 

"Where  are  the  boasted  powers  of  Reason  now!"  I  know 
you  resolute,  indeed ! — and  am  thus  reduced  to  Murder — or  For- 
gery ! — If  there  is  a  Power,  who  sees  the  struggles,  the  desperate 
conflicts  of  this  hour,  O,  let  me  hope,  that,  in  my  account  here- 
after— Why  do  I  reason? — AH  clue  of  right  or  wrong  is  lost — my 
brain  is  fire — my  heart  is  ice — I  have  no  more  the  agency  of  my 
own  will — Woman — or  demon — whichsoever  thou  art — I  am  your 
slave,  forever! — Lead  me,  then,  onward  in  your  own  paths,  be  their 
termination  heaven  or  hell!" 

He  forged  Mr.  Emery's  acceptance! — Milwood  sprung  towards 
the  table,  hurried  the  bill  into  her  bosom,  and  covered  her  devoted 
victim  with  caresses. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

Every  man,  whose  knowledge,  or  whose  virtues,  can  five  value  to  his  opinion,  looks 
with  scorn  or  pity  on  him,  whom  the  punders  of  luxury  have  drawn,  within  their  influ- 
ence, and  about  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  tailors  and  jockeys,  vintner*  and  attorneys. 

RAMBLER. 

AFTER  an  absence  of  two  hours,  Milwood  returned  to  the  cot- 
tage where  Barn  well  waited,  in  a  state  of  mind  beyond  the  powers 
of  language  to  describe.  Guilt,  terror,  and  remorse,  haunted  his 
breast,  and  created  there  a  hell  of  torments ! 

She  tendered  him  a  bank-note  of  three  hundred  pounds.  Hasti- 
ly snatching  it  from  her  hands,  he  cast  on  her  a  look  of  mingled 
love  and  horror  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

As  he  was  turning  quickly  round  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  almost 
stumbled  over  his  first  London  acquaintance,  Mr.  Rigby,  who  had 
left  Mr.  Emery's  the  first  winter  of  his  arrival. 

"  Barnwell !  In  the  name  of  Oddity,  what  makes  you  from  Lon- 
don !  Positively,  I  should  as  soon  have  expected  to  eeB  the  statue 
at  Charing  Cross  trotting  ten  miles  an  hour  as  to  meet^you  at  a 
watering  place  :  but  excusez  mo( — you  look  upon  the  queer — What's 
the  business  1  You  were  running;  Excusez  mot,  but  I  met  Nick 
Snatch  the  bailiff  here — I  beg  you'll  make  no  ceremony,  but  trip." 

"  Bailiff!  Nick  Snatch  ! — I  really  don't  comprehend  you,  sir?" 

"  No  matter  ;  change  the  subject.  All  the  world  talks  of  a  smash 
in  a  certain  quarter — Perhaps  that's  the  business  that  queers  you. 
Ex  pensive  style —speculative  man — loan  at  a  discount,  and  no  bonus 
— Poor  Emery  !" 

"  Really,  Mr.  Rigby,"  cried  Barnwell,  vexed  to  be  detained  at 
sucb  a  moment,  and  by  such  a  trifler — "  Really,  Mr.  Rigby,  when 
you  ami  I  converse,  we  should  call  in  an  interpreter." 

"  O,  excusez  moi — Change  the  subject — Do  you  want  a  horse ; 
my  Fireball,  sorry  to  part  with  him,  perfectly  sound,  good  wind, 
full  of  flesh,  fine  figure,  fast  trotter — must  go — want  Spanssh!" 

1 


148  KKO&GE      BARN  WELL. 

"  Spare  yourself,  sir ;  1  am  in  no  want  of  a  horse ;  but  rather  in 
haste." 

"  O,  change  the  subject.  What  do  you  think  ?  bought  a  curricle, 
two  chestnuts,  plated  harness — knocked  down  at — what  think 
you?" 

"  No  matter  what,  sir,"  said  Barnwell.     "  Good  morning." 

"  Why,  where  the  devil  are  you  running  ?  Change  the  subject. 
Who's  in  Ramsgate?" 

"  The  whole  family." 

"  O — excusez  moi — Promenade — nous  aUons — "  and  seizing  hold 
of  Barnwell's  arm,  he  was  constrained  to  submit  to  his  company. 
"  Change  the  subject — What  do  you  think?  Such  a  mess!  quar- 
relled with  dad — wouldn't  bleed — cut  him  completely — never  speak 
— drain  mamma — coax  sisters — come  over  the  Israelites — all  won't 
do — hardly  enough  to  buy  Jew  bail — afraid  of  the  Morrow  of  All 
Souls — curse  their  Terms — wish  old  dad  would  trip — snug  comn — 
neat  monument — rummage  the  parchments — annuity  mamma — pair 
off  the  girls — marry  Kitty — get  a  seat  in  a  certain  House — and 
laugh  at  Nick  Snatch  !" 

Slender  was  the  attention  of  Barnwell  to  the  silly  effusions  of 
this  profligate  young  man,  who  was  become  completely  the  dupe 
of  a  set  of  unprincipled  beings,  who  made  him  at  once  their  prey, 
and  the  object  of  their  ridicule. 

Such  was  the  extreme  volubility  of  his  companion,  that  Barn- 
well's  silence  was  unnoticed.  They  arrived  at  Mr.  Emery's.  Mr. 
Rigby  could  by  no  means  obtain  an  audience  of  any  of  the  family. 
The  ladies  were  quite  au  desespoir  for  the  event  of  to-morrow  ;  Mr. 
Emery  and  the  captain  were  close  closeted  ;  and  therefore,  after 
tormenting  Barnwell  an  hour  longer,  he  retired,  and  left  him  to  the 
most  excruciating  reflections. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

No  law  divine  condemns  the  virtuous 

For  differing  from  the  rules  your  schools  derise. 
Look  round  how  Providence  bestows,  alike, 
Sunshine  and  rain,  that  bless  the  fruitful  year, 
OD  different  nations all  of  different  faiths. — Ro'WK. 

By  a  letter,  the  preceding  evening,  Mental  had  requested  Barn- 
well  to  be  with  him  by  three  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the  duel. 
He  was  punctual  to  the  hour.  He  found  that  extraordinary  man 
calm,  and  more  collected  in  his  manner  and  speech  than  he  had 
ever  beheld  him.  There  were  two  packets  lying  on  a  table,  which 
he  pointed  out  to  Barnwell. 

"Uncertain  of  the  events  of  the  next  hour,"  said  he,  "I  have 
prepared  either  for  death  or  flight.  If  I  should  fall,  let  this  packet 
be  opened  immediately  after  my  remains  are  brought  hither  :  it 


GEORGE     B  A  R  N  W  E  L  L  .  149 

contains  directions  for  the  disposal  of  my  property.  If  Middleton 
should  fall,  and  I  survive,  let  this  be  opened  the  day  following  my 
flight :  It  contains  some  few  requests,  which  I  persuade  myself  you 
will  not  hesitate  to  comply  with.  Now  I  am  ready  ;  and,  be  the 
issue  what  it  may,  I  am  content." 

The  state  of  Barnwell's  mind  was  ill  adapted  to  remonstrate  at 
that  time,  even  could  he  have  imagined  remonstrance  of  the  least 
avail  with  such  a  man  as  Mental.  Much,  indeed,  he  wished  to  re- 
late to  him  how  far  he  had  himself  deviated  from  the  paths  of  rec- 
titude ;  much  he  wished  to  declare  the  horrors  of  remorse,  and 
fears  of  disgrace,  that  tortured  his  afflicted  soul ;  but  the  solemnity 
of  the  hour  forbade  him.  He  could  not  disturb  the  tranquillity  of 
Mental's  bosom  at  a  time,  when,  of  all  others,  it  became  him  if  pos- 
sible, to  increase  it. 

As  they  were  walking  towards  the  field,  Mental,  gazing  round 
upon  the  opening  beauties  of  the  morning  scene,  said — 

"  In  a  little  time  probably,  this  vast  and  wondrous  theatre  of 
Nature  will  be  forever  shut  to  me !  and  what  shall  succeed  it  ? — 
Vain  inquiry  !  That  something  will  succeed,  I  feel — for  Nature 
shudders  at  the  idea  of  total  annihilation.  Nor  is  this  longing, 
anxious  hope  of  '  living  on'  the  mere  effect  of  education,  as  I  myself 
once  thought.  The  various  prospects  of  that  Future  may,  and 
doubtless  do,  receive  their  several  colourings  from  education  ;  but 
the  expectation  of  some  hereafter  seems  to  me  upon  mature  consid- 
eration of  all  opinions,  and  a  scrupulous  investigation  of  my  own 
thoughts,  to  be  the  only  innate  idea  of  man,  a  universal  principle 
implanted  by  the  common  parent,  and  influencing,  under  various 
forms,  the  tenants  of  each  quarter  of  the  globe.  But  beyond  this 
conviction,  the  powers  of  my  Mind  do  not  go  one  step.  In  Eng- 
land, this  futurity  is  represented  in  one  form  to  our  senses;  in 
Turkey,  it  assumes  another  ;  in  Hindostan,  another ;  and  among 
ths  Africans,  another  still ;  and  he  who,  dwelling  under  either  dis- 
pensation, is  ignorant  of  any  other,  feels  no  difficulty  in  blending 
his  belief  of  what  he  hears  with  the  conviction  of  what  he  feels. 
Not  so  the  man  of  more  enlightened  mind  ;  who,  unblinded  by  pre- 
judice, surveys  the  numerous  creeds  of  various  nations.  He  hesi- 
tates, ere  he  can  affix  to  any  little  spot  on  earth,  the  Divine  Revel- 
ation of  Futurity;  and,  rising  superior  to  the  littleness  of  sslf, 
inquires  how  he  may  reconcile  the  Justice  of  Omnipotence  with  so 
confined  a  notion. — Hence,  he  no  longer  broods  over  forms  and  cer- 
emonies ;  he  ceases  to  let  down  the  energies  of  thought  to  silly  scru- 
tinies of  trivial  exteriors  ;  but,  unfettering  his  soul  from  chains  of 
human  workmanship,  gives  it  bold  flight,  even  to  the  stretch  of 
Reason.  In  consequence,  he  acts,  he  speaks,  he  thinks — deeds, 
words,  and  thoughts,  truly  his  own. 

"  One  error  generally  accompanies  this  originality  of  mind,  from 
which  I  have  been  far  from  free — '  Forgetfulness  of  the  general 
state  of  mankind' — which  calls  for  the  slow  and  gradual  removal 
of  the  veil  of  prejudices,  and  on  which  too  sudden  a  glare  of  light 


150  GEORGE      BARNWELL. 

must  necessarily  produce  effects  the  very  opposite  to  those  in- 
tended by  the  benevolence  of  true  philosophers. 

"  A  deep  consideration  of  this  fact  has  made  me  lament  having 
published  some  strong  truths,  which  have  unsettled  many  minds 
from  that  foundation  on  which  they  had  rested,  ere  any  new  and 
more  solid  base  was  formed  for  their  support ;  and  has  confirmed 
me  strongly  in  the  opinion,  that  REFORMATION  is  much  better 
adapted  to  the  purposes  of  philanthropy  than  the  best  planned 
REVOLUTION.  I  feel  a  relief  to  my  mind,  in  making  this  free  apol- 
ogy for  my  own  conduct,  and  sincere  confession  of  my  sentiments, 
at  this  time,  most  probably  so  near  my  exit  from  the  stage  of  life. 
Admit  me,  my  young  friend,  earnestly  to  recommend  to  your  re- 
membrance, that  at  the  closing  hour  of  this  life,  there  was  nothing  so 
anxiously  employed  the  thoughts  of  Mental,  as  the  future  effects  of 
those  doctrines,  which  he  had  promulgated  among  mankind.  May 
it  impress  upon  your  mind  a  caution,  which  will  most  carefully 
regulate  the  propagation  of  your  sentiments,  and  even  the  effusions 
of  your  fancy." 

This  sermon  (for  such  the  solemnity  of  Mental's  manner  made  it 
appear)  finished  as  they  were  within  sight  of  the  mill. — They  had 
not  arrived  three  minutes  before  they  were  joined  by  Captain  Mid- 
dleton  and  Mr.  Emery.  The  paces  were  measured,  the  pistols 
loaded,  and  the  antagonists  took  the  ground.  The  surprise  which 
had  made  a  coward  of  Middleton  had  worn  away,  and  he  now  re- 
sumed that  courage  for  which  he  was  celebrated.  They  were  to 
fire  together  at  a  signal  from  Mr.  Emery.  The  word  was  given — . 
Msntal's  ball  grazed  the  shoulder  of  Captain  Middleton  who  fired 
in  the  air. 

"How  is  this?"  exclaimed  Mental— "why  did  you  fire  in  the 
air?" 

"  Having  received  your  fire,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  "  I  presume 
I  may  now,  without  the  imputation  of  cowardice,  solicit  your  atten- 
tion for  a  few  minutes  to  some  observations  I  would  offer.  When 
you  have  heard  me,  it  shall  remain  for  your  decision,  whether  this 
affair  shall  proceed.  If  it  is  your  wish  to  fire  again,  I  shall  think 
myself  justified  in  returning  it,  after  the  explanation  I  may  offer, 
and  the  satisfaction  I  have  already  afforded  by  receiving  your  ball." 

"  I  cannot  refuse  to  hear  you,  sir ;  but  our  situation  requires  you 
should  be  brief." 

"  If  I  could  prove,  from  the  most  certain  evidences,"  said  the 
captain,  "  that  your  daughter  lives " 

"My  daughter  lives !"  exclaimed  Mental  starting: — "  Psha, 
psha,  psha ! — 1  saw  her  die — •!  saw  the  earth  receive  her  poor  re- 
mains into  its  bosom!  Why,  then,  this  paltry  evasion?" 

"  I  am  patient,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  I  bear  with  the  effusions  of 
your  sorrow — but,  believe  me,  sir — if  the  unfortunate  girl,  whom 
the  madness  of  desire  urged  me  to  seduce,  and  whose  name  was 
MiMital,  residing  at  Mrs.  Orma's— if,  sir,  this  was  your  daughter — 
she  still  lives — I  saw  her  last  night." 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL*.  151 

"Saw  her  last  nigrht!"  echoed  Mental,  clasping  his  hands  to- 
gether— "!  hope  not N"o,  no — it  cannot  be— I  saw  her  die." 

"  You  must  have  been  deceived,  sir,  by  some  strong  resemblance 
of  person,  or  some  striking  coincidence  of  circumstances — for,  by 
Heaven,  I  repeat,  Miss  Mental  lives !" 

"  Wonderful,  wonderful !"  said  Mental,  in  a  voice  barely  audi- 
ble, with  his  folded  hands  placed  to  his  eyes. 

"  After  the  strong  impression  of  her  death,  which  you  have  re- 
ceived," said  the  captain,  "  nothing  will,  perpaps,  convince  you  of 
her  existence,  unless  you  were  to  see  her." 

"  See  her !  see  her !"  exclaimed  Mental,  fearfully  looking 
around  him — "Is  she  near  me? — I  would  rather  embrace  the  se- 
verest tortures  Cruelty  ere  framed ! — See  her ! — horrible ! — horri- 
ble!" 

As  he  ceased,  the  teeth  chattered  in  his  head,  and  his  whole 
frame  was  convulsed. 

"Your  arm,  my  friend,"  continued  he  to  Barnwell.  "I  am 
faint." 

He  reclined  his  head  on  Barnwell's  shoulder.  Mr.  Emery  then 
advanced,  and  proposed  retiring  to  his  house,  that  Captain  Middle- 
ton  might  relate  the  discovery  of  the  preceding  evening,  from 
which  Mr.  Mental  might  draw  his  own  conclusions.  He  submit- 
ted ;  and  by  a  slow  walk  they  arrived  there.  Mental  asked  for  a 
glass  of  water,  and,  after  taking  it,  requested  Captain  Middleton  to 
proceed. 

"  It  is  a  very  considerable  time,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  "  since 
Miss  Mental  and  myself  separated — I  would,  if  possible,  avoid 
shocking  your  mind  ;  but  I  am  compelled  to  say,  that  Elinor's  in- 
fidelity was  the  cause." 

"  Facts,  facts,  sir,  if  you  please,  and  spare  your  comments,"  said 
Mental. 

"  Since  our  separation,  I  understand,  she  visited  Rome,  Flor- 
ence, and  several  of  the  Italian  States,  in  company  with  a  young 
nobleman,  whom,  at  length,  she  left,  and  sunk  into  that  way  of 
living." 

"  I  understand,  sir,"  interrupted  Mental — "  Pray,  go  on." 

"  From  that  period,  till  last  night,  I  have  remained  ignorant  of 
her  entirely.  In  consequence  of  the  intended  meeting  of  this  morn- 
ing, I  had  occasion  for  my  attorney.  Fortunately,  I  learnt  he  was 
in  Ramsgate,  and  he  waited  on  me.  The  cause  of  our  meeting,  of 
course,  was  mentioned ;  when,  to  my  astonishment,  he  declared, 
your  daughter  was  at  that  moment  alive,  and  in  Ramsgate !  He 
cannot  be  deceived,  for  he  knew  her  as  early  as  myself,  and  has 
corresponded  with  her  ever  since." 

"In  Ramsgate  !"  muttered  Mental ;  "  so  near  me  too  !" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  captain.  "  She  resides  in  a  small  cottage 
near  the  sea,  and  assumes  the  name  of  Milwood." 

Barnwell  turned  pale  as  the  dead  ;  his  knees  shook,  and  his  head 
sunk  upon  his  breast.  Mental,  almost  as  much  affected,  had  yet 


153  GEORGE     BARNWE&L. 

more  presence  of  mind  ;  and  said,  with  particular  emphasis,  "  We 
must  inquire  into  this,  and  endeavour  to  conceal  our  emotions  for 
the  present. ' ' 

Barnwell  took  the  hint ;  and,  continuing  to  hold  down  his  head, 
made  every  exertion  in  his  power  to  screen  his  astonishment  from 
observation. 

"  Where  is  this  attorney,  sir?"  said  Mental. 

"  In  this  house,"  replied  the  captain.  "Hoping  to  gain  your 
attention,  I  requested  he  would  be  ready  to  corroborate,  by  his  tes- 
timony, what  I  have  asserted.  I  will  step  for  him." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  Mental ;  "  /  will  examine  him  in  private. 
Lead  me  to  him." 

This  manoeuvre  of  Mental's  to  prevent  the  meeting  of  Blackmore 
and  Barnwell,  was  truly  acceptable  to  the  latter,  who  would  most 
probably  have  been  betrayed,  by  the  presence  of  Blackmore,  into  a 
premature  confession  of  his  connexion. 

The  time  that  Mental  was  out  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  the 
observations  of  Mr.  Emery  and  Middleton  on  this  discovery  ;  whilst 
Barnwell's  mind  was  absorbed  in  contemplating  the  consequences 
it  would  produce. 

At  length  Mental  returned,  and,  addressing  himself  to  Captain 
Middleton — 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  he,  "  from  the  narrative  of  this  man, 
that  she,  over  whose  grave  I  have  wept,  was  not  my  daughter.  I 
doubt  not  but  she  lives. — This  discovery  gives  birth  to  many  diffi- 
culties, which  I  must  overcome  ;  my  life,  therefore,  is  necessary  ; 
and  I  am  thus  obliged  to  relinquish,  at  least  for  the  present,  any 
further  claim  which  the  laws  of  honour  may  allow  me."  He  then 
beckoned  Barnwell,  and  they  left  the  room  together. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

It  is  of  the  very  essence  of  affection,  to  seek  to  perpetuate  itself.  He  does  not  love, 
who  cao  resign  this  cherished  sentiment,  without  suffering  some  of  the  sharpest  strug- 
gles that  our  nature  is  capable  of  enduring. 

One  of  the  last  impressions  a  worthy  mind  can  submit  to  receive,  is,  that  of  tho 
worthlcssness  of  the  person  on  whom  it  has  fixed  all  its  esteem. 

GODWIN'S  MEMOIRS  OF  M.  W.  GODWIX. 

MENTAL  and  Barnwell  passed  the  distance  from  Mr.  Emery's 
house  to  the  lodgings  of  the  former  in  the  profoundest  silence. 
When  they  entered  the  room,  the  sight  of  the  two  packets  affected 
Mental  extremely. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  these  papers  again,"  said  he ;  "  but  who 
could  have  imagined  the  events  of  this  hour  !  Who  could  have 
doubted  such  appearances  ?  The  miserable  being  whom  I  deposited 
in  the  grave,  Barnwell,  was  the  friend  and  companion  of  Elinor 
when  she  resided  in  Holborn  ;  her  name  really  Ellen.  Thus, 
whilst  I  have  imagined  she  had  withdrawn  from  our  world,  the 


6EORGH     BARNWKLL.  153 

guilty  wretch  has  been  laying  snares  to  entangle  you.  Oh,  my 
poor  brain  !" 

Overpowered  by  the  strength  of  his  feelings,  he  sank  into  a 
chair,  and  reclined  his  head  on  the  table.  He  wept. 

"Tears!"  exclaimed  he.  "Well — well! — a  few  struggles 
more,  and  nature  must  yield.  But  you,  oh,  ill-fated  youth,  what 
must  be  your  feelings  ?  The  dupe  of  such  consummate  artifice — 
how  must  your  bosom  burn  with  indignation  against  the — against 
my  daughter  !" 

"  Oh,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Barnwell,  with  a  heart  too  full  for  further 
utterance. 

"  Fly  to  her,"  cried  Mental;  "upbraid  her!  heap  on  her  the 
curses  of  a  father  !" 

"  Hold — hold  !"  said  Barnwell.  "  It  cannot  be — it  is  impossible 
— that  a  countenance  which  bespeaks  the  calm,  serene  felicity  of 
angels,  can  disguise  so  depraved  a  heart !  There  must  be  more 
Milwoods  than  one.  She,  whom  I  know,  cannot  be  your  Elinor — 
and  yet  such  mysterious  secrecy — such  contradictory  narrations — 
such  evidence,  too  ! — Oh,  God!  if  it  should  be  so  P' 

"  Poor  youth  !"  cried  Mental  ;  "  fain  would  I  comfort  you  ;  but 
when  the  recollection  of  the  source  whence  flows  your  misery  darts 
through  my  brain — can  I  reflect  upon  a  prostituted  child — can  I  con- 
template the  ruin  of  innocence  I  ought  to  have  preserved,  and  be 
calm?" 

In  agony  the  wretched  father  stamped  his  feet,  and  clasped  his 
hands  together,  with  a  groan  that  pierced  the  heart  of  Barnwell. 
Then,  with  an  effort,  recovering  himself — 

"But  this  is  woman's  weakness  ;  this  is  disgraceful  impotence 
of  mind,  thus  to  be  startled  at  a  phantom  !  for  what  more  is  it  1  I 
will  still  suppose  her  dead — she  shall  be  as  dead  to  me — ah,  and  to 
you,  too,  youth  !"  continued  he,  taking  Barnwell  by  the  hand,  who 
had  shaken  his  head  significantly  :  "  Yes,  we  must  each  console 
the  other,  as  though  each  had  followed  to  the  grave  the  object  of 
his  hopes  and  love.  Let  us  upbraid  each  other's  weakness,  if  a 
tear  glisten  in  the  eye,  or  a  sigh  escape  its  prison  of  the  heart! 
there,  close  captives,  let  our  sorrows  lie  ;  and,  though  they  struggle 
with  a  giant's  strength  to  escape  their  bonds,  not  till  the  bursting 
of  the  heart,  in  death,  be  they  our  conquerors  !  How  say  you,  boy ; 
can  you  do  this?  Or  will  you  crouch  before  the  rod  of  Fate,  smart 
under  the  discipline  of  foolish  griefs,  and  whimper  like  an  infant 
for  a  broken  toy  ? — Come — let  us  swear  never  to  behold  her  more !" 

"Oh! — Impossible — impossible!"  cried  Barnwell. — "The  love 
I  cherish  has  become  the  source  of  my  existence  ;  it  is  woven  with 
life  itself;  and  their  duration  is  coeval.  Nor  can  I— pardon  ma, 
sir — approve  your  conduct.  What  if  she  be  fallen  as  low  in  infamy 
as  we  are  told — what  if  her  former  life  has  been  a  scene  of  vice  ! — 
Might  not  a  father's  hand,  extended,  preserve  her  from  still  lower 
depths  of  sin  ?  Is  it  not  possible  your  Elinor  might  yet  become  the 
solace  of  your  latter  days?" 


154  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  What  madness!"  said  Mental. — "  Wild  infatuation  !  Do  yon 
not  know  that  the  lost  being-  has  become  a  professor  of  iniquity? 
'Tis  not  a  lapse  of  human  nature  should  make  me  thus  resolve. — 
Had  she  sought  these  arms  when  the  accursed  seducer  first  aban- 
doned her ;  had  she  brought  to  me  the  heart  that  he  spurned  from 
him ;  think  you  a  man,  so  much  above  the  prejudices  of  the  vulgar, 
would  have  disclaimed  her  for  the  weakness  of  her  nature?  No  !  I 
would  have  nursed  her  penitence  in  my  pitying  bosom — I  would 
have  healed  her  wounded  heart  with  a  father's  best  affections'? 
But  now — when  the  impulse  of  her  nature  is  exchanged  for  the 
sordid  purposes  of  interest ;  when  the  affections  of  her  heart  are  all 
evaporated,  and  in  their  channel  flows  a  stream  of  putrid  passions 
— pride,  envy,  lust,  revenge  against  mankind — what  can  you  ima- 
gine would  result  from  overtures  of  reconciliation  on  my  part,  but 
insolent  denials?  The  delight  that  swells  the  bosoms  of  the  parent 
and  the  child  is  virtuous  joy  !  The  smiles  of  a  father  is  bliss  un- 
speakable to  a  virtuous  breast  ;  but,  to  a  corrupted  heart,  is  as  the 
sight  of  heaven  to  the  fallen  angels!" 

Barnwell  listened  most  attentively. 

"  If,  indeed,  you  are  persuaded,"  said  he,  "  that  she  is  so  far 
abandoned,  which  I,  who  have  so  lately  seen  her,  cannot  allow, 
yet,  even  then,  admitting  she  spurned  all  overtures  of  a  father's 
aid  in  a  return  to  virtue,  would  not  the  thought,  that  you  had  offered 
it,  afford  some  consolation  ?" 

Mental  started,  and  paused  a  considerable  time. 

"No,  no — it  must  not  be,"  cried  he.  "  Your  suggestion  struck 
me  for  the  moment ;  but,  upon  consideration,  I  am  convinced  it 
would  prove  a  fruitless  offer,  and  only  add  to  her  despair." 

"  Still  you  argue,"  said  Barnwell,  "  on  the  ground  that  she  is 
irreparably  lost.  If  you  could  see  hex- — if  you  but  heard  her  senti- 
ments— " 

"  Deception  is  her  trade,"  cried  Mental.  "  But  yet  I  am  half 
inclined  to  see  her." 

"Oh,  do!"  cried  Barnwell,  with  quickness. 

"  If  I  were  sure  she  would  not  know  me — And  so  little  resem- 
blance to  the  portrait  do  I  now  bear,  that,  I  think,  it  is  impossible 
she  could — I  would  see  her." 

"  Obey  this  impulse,  sir — it  is  the  voice  of  nature,  and  I  will 
hope  the  happiest  effects.  She  must,  she  shall,  prove  virtuous  yet ; 
for  'tis  in  vain  to  talk  of  tearing  from  your  heart  her  lovely 
image !" 

"  Softly,  youth,"  cried  Mental.  "  Let  not  passion  bear  away 
remembrance.  Grant  that  we  succeeded  to  our  utmost  hopes ;  what 
would  follow — but  that  she  should  forsake  the  throngs  of  society, 
and  in  the  solitude  of  retirement  calm  the  tumultuous  sea  of  passions 
that  rages  in  her  bosom.  You  do  not,  surely,  for  a  moment,  Barn- 
well,  think  of  renewing  a  connexion  with  a  common  prostitute  !" 

"  Do  I  hear  you,  sir  ?"  cried  Barnwell,  his  cheeks  tinged  with 
a  rosy  glow,  his  breast  heaving  with  the  impetuosity  of  youthful 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  155 

passion—"  Was  it  Mr.  Mental  that  I  heard  ?  Impossible  !  'Twas 
the  croaking  voice  of  Prejudice,  that  blended  the  supposition  of 
returning  virtue  and  a  hiding-place  together.  A  MONK  could  not 

Seach  otherwise,  indeed  !  But  I  disdain  the  notion.  Oh,  were 
ilwood  virtuous  now,  not  all  the  screams  and  howlings  of  a  won- 
dering world  should  fright  me  from  her  arms  !" 

"  Youth,"  cried  Mental,  with  an  expressive  gaze — "  Youth,  I 
admire  and  tremble — Hear  my  determination  : — The  attorney 
Blackmore  is  completely  in  my  power — some  practices,  of  which 
he  was  guilty  in  the  affairs  of  Norris,  would  transport  him.  On 
his  lips,  therefore,  I  have  a  seal.  My  daughter  is  ignorant  of  the 
duel,  and  its  causes  ;  she  will  remain  so.  Could  it,  then,  be  con- 
trived to  admit  me,  for  a  day  or  two,  as  a  friend  of  yours,  into  her 
company — by  which  means  I  might  judge  of  her  for  myself,  and  act 
accordingly?" 

"  Nothing  more  easy,"  said  Barnwell.  "  You  might,  for  a 
few  days  occupy  a  room  in  the  cottage.  'Tis  an  excellent  thought; 
and  I  cherish  the  strongest  hope  of  its  success." 

After  several  obstacles  were  removed,  this  plan  was  resolved  on, 
and  Barnwell  went  to  prepare  for  its  execution. 

Milwood  had  scarcely  risen,  when  Barnwell  entered  the  cottage. 
Surprised  at  so  early  a  visit,  the  first  thought  that  occurred  to  her 
was,  that  the  forgery  had  been  already  detected,  though  Black- 
more,  in  whose  hands  she  placed  the  note,  had  declared  he  would 
not  negotiate  it  for  at  least  a  month  ;  in  which  period  she  proposed 
the  conclusion  of  her  schemes  on  Barnwell.  She  was  agreeably 
disappointed,  therefore,  when  he  acquainted  her  with  the  nature  of 
his  errand  ;  describing  Mental  as  an  old  gentleman  from  whom  he 
had  considerable  expectations,  who  wished  to  reside  some  time  at 
Ramsgate  incog.  It  was  settled,  that  abed  should  be  prepared  for 
him  by  the  evening.  Influenced,  as  he  was,  by  contending  emo- 
tions, Barnwell's  behaviour  did  not  escape  the  penetration  of  Mil- 
wood. 

"  Are  you  unwell,  Barnwell?"  said  she. 

"  No,"  replied  he. 

"  Your  mind  is  uneasy,  then?" 

"  What  should  make  it  so?  Do  I  not  possess  your  love — your 
whole  heart  1 — Milwood,  you  never  loved  another  as  you  love  me?" 

"  Never.     But  why  that  question?" 

"  There  are  others  of  the  name  of  Milwood  in  the  world,  I  should 
suppose  ;  or  else  calumny  has  been  busy  with  yours!" 

"  Who  dare  calumniate  my  character  ?"  and  she  blushed  deeply. 

"  Nay,  I  did  not  say  'twas  yours.  But  my  friend,  whom  you 
will  see  to-night,  soon  as  I  mentioned  the  name  of  Milwood,  and 
expressed  to  him  (for  he  is  my  second  self)  the  nature  of  our  con- 
nexion, started,  and  then  detailed  some  tales  that  he  had  heard  of 
one  Milwood.  But  they  could  not  relate  to  you." 

"  'Twas  not  kind,  sir,  to  refuse  my  poor  request  of  secrecy  for 
a  few  more  days  ;  but,  to  convince  you  how  superior  I  feel  to  any 

7* 


158  GEORGE    BARN'WELL. 

tale  of  calumny,  I  am  glad  your  friend  is  coming.  He  will  not 
scruple  to  repeat  it,  I  should  hope." 

"I  never  knew  him  shrink  from  his  own  act." 

Enough  had  passed  to  convince  Milwood  she  was  suspected. 
When,  therefore,  Barnwell  prepared  to  take  leave,  she  made  no 
attempt  to  detain  him  ;  but  immediately  after  his  departure  went 
in  search  of  Blackmore,  and  challenged  him  with  treachery  :  he, 
from  a  dread  of  Mental,  persisted  to  the  contrary;  and  declared, 
that  he  had  not  uttered  a  syllable  concerning  her.  Destitute  of 
any  other  good  suspicion,  she  now  turned  her  thoughts  again  to- 
wards this  stranger,  and  prepared  herself  for  a  detection.  Sum- 
moning to  her  aid  all  the  powers  she  possessed,  she  waited  with 
considerable  anxiety  his  arrival. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

So  farewell,  Hope — and  with  Hope,  farewell,  Fear  : 
Farewell,  Remorse ; — all  Good  to  me  is  lost ; — 
Evil,  be  thou  my  Good  ! MILTON. 

THE  mind  of  Barnwell  began  now  to  assume  a  cast,  which  justly 
to  delineate  is  beyond  the  best  efforts  of  the  most  brilliant  powers  of 
description.  The  rapid  progress  of  interesting  events,  in  which 
he  had  been  chief  actor,  seemed  now  to  have  attained  their  climax. 
Left  to  his  own  reflections  for  a  time,  the  consequences  of  that 
morning's  discovery  passed  in  dreadful  succession  before  his  im- 
agination. 

"  Milwood  ?" — would  he  murmur — "  Milwood  ! — Mysterious  be- 
ing !  1  am  lost  in  unraveling  her  actions  !  what  but  love  can  have 
impelled  her  to  such  a  series  of  impostures ! — A  prostitute  !  is  not 
the  end  of  such  lost  women — Gain — Subsistence?  Has  such  been 
Milwbod's  ! — Have  I  not  offered  her  my  hand? — Might  she  not 
have  been  my  wife,  with  half  the  effort  that  it  has  cost  her  to  pro- 
cure five  hundred  pounds?  Besides,  has  she  not  shared  the  crime, 
arid  consequent  hazard  of  detection  and  death?  Had  she,  when 
she  obtained  that  sum,  fled  from  the  reach  of  justice,  1  could  at 
once  decide  upon  her  motives.  But,  no— Jewels,  which  she  im- 
agined worth  more  than  that  sum,  were  in  her  possession — these 
she  parted  with  : — for  what? — To  purchase  a  release  from  her  hus- 
band ! — Has  she,  then,  a  husband  ?  If  not,  why  pretend  so?  Then, 
her  uncle  !  If  she  is,  indeed,  Mental's  daughter,  she  can  have  no 
uncle.  Blackmore,  too  ! — the  creature  of  Middleton  ! — He,  it 
seems,  is  the  discoverer  of  this  lost  daughter  ;  and  he  finds  her — in 
Milwood — whose  husband,  he  pretended,  was  his  client! — By  hea- 
vens, 'tis  a  conspiracy — a  juggle! — But  how  to  detect  it?  To- 
night's interview  will  probably  throw  some  light  on  this  mysterious 
business ;  but  to  me  it  seems  impossible  she  can  be  Mental's  daugh- 
ter !" 


GEORGE      BARNWELL.  157 

To  these  reflections  succeeded  others,  respecting  that  dreadful 
act  to  which  the  siren  had  urged  him. — 

"  Forgery  !"  exclaimed  he  to  himself. — "  Who,  I — I  commit  a 
forgery  ! — Spirit  of  my  father,  did  you  see  the  deed? — Where  is 
the  fatal  paper? — Perhaps,  ere  this,  detected,  traced  ! — And  who, 
cries  an  inquiring  world,  who  was  the  villain? — Horrible,  horrible  ! 
Three  hundred  pounds  may  yet  redeem  it.  I'll  instantly  ask  it  of 
Mr.  Emery.  Why  do  I  hesitate? — My  embarrassment  will  betray 
me. — Shall  I,  then,  acknowledge  to  him,  in  time,  what  I  have 
done?  Coward,  that  I  am,  my  heart  sinks  at  the  idea!  The  dis- 
tresses of  Mental,  at  this  moment,  render  it  cruelty  to  obtrude  an- 
other's miseries  upon  him. — My  uncle! — my  mother! — Gracious 
God !  it  would  be  parricide  to  let  them  know  that  I  am  such  a 
villain !" 

In  the  most  distracted  state  of  mind  he  passed  the  remainder  of 
the  day ;  seeking  every  opportunity  of  solitude,  dreading  the  glance 
of  every  eye,  starting  at  every  footstep ;  retracing,  with  an  aching 
heart,  the  past,  and  contemplating  the  future,  almost  with  despair! 

Evening  arrived.  He  repaired  to  Mental,  who  awaited  his  call 
to  accompany  him  to  Milwood's  cottage,  having  disguised  himself 
in  the  habit  of  an  Hanoverian,  in  which  he  had  formerly  travelled. 

"  Now  for  an  effort,  young  friend,"  said  he.  "  But,  methinks, 
you  do  not  brave  this  warfare  of  the  passions  with  the  fortitude 
that  becomes  you  : — your  brow  is  marked  with  grief ;  your  eye 
lowers,  and  you  sigh !  Come,  come — be  more  yourself!  One 
interview,  most  probably,  will  announce  the  future  destinies  of  us 
both.  I  tremble  for  myself;  and  yet  I  fain  would  act  the  hero  for 
your  example.  Should  she  resemble  her  mother ! — But,  come — 
the  evening  is  advanced." 

Barnwell  bowed  in  silence,  and  they  set  forward  for  the  cot- 
tage. 

In  the  mean  time,  Milwood  had  not  been  idle.  Every  channel 
of  inquiry  had  been  drained.  Blackmore  had  been  entreated,  and 
threatened,  in  vain  ;  he  had  disclosed  nothing,  and  the  result  of  all 
her  industry  was  vague  uncertainty,  as  to  the  expected  stranger. 
She  did  not  fail  however,  to  make  such  preparations  as  might 
evince  to  Barnwell  her  desire  to  please.  The  entertainment  that 
she  provided  for  his  friend  was  deficient  in  nothing  that  her  situa- 
tion permitted  her  to  procure. 

Mental  and  Barnwell  arrived.  She  saw  them  open  the  wicket 
gate,  at  the  entrance  of  a  gravel  walk  that  led  to  the  cottage  door. 
She  placed  herself  to  receive  them.  Mental  started  at  the  thresh- 
hold,  and  retired  a  pace  or  two — It  was  his  daughter  that  he  be- 
held ;  and  in  her  he  saw  her  unfortunate  mother !  To  screen  his 
confusion,  Barnwell  attracted  the  attention  of  Milwood,  by  saying 
— "  This  is  Mr.  Townley,  whom  I  mentioned  this  morning.  Cir- 
cumstances rendering  a  temporary  concealment  necessary,  he  has 
chosen  this  disguise  to  ensure  it."  Milwood,  having  surveyed  the 
stranger  circumspectly,  said — "  As  the  friend  of  my  Barnwell, 


158  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

sir,  you  are  welcome :  acquaintance,  I  doubt  not,  will  teach  me  to 
respect  you  on  your  own  account." 

Mental  bowed,  and,  in  a  faltering  voice,  replied — "  I  am  a  plain 
man,  madam,  and  too  much  out  of  humour  with  my  own  destiny  to 
accommodate  my  muscles  to  a  smile  of  gallantry  ;  but  I  thank  you, 
and,  rough  as  my  manners  may  appear  to  you,  I  shall  not  be  an 
insensible  observer  of  your  actions.  My  young  friend  has,  I  pre- 
sume, acquainted  you  with  my  customs,  which  to  you  may  wear 
the  semblance  of  capricious  whims  ;  but,  'twas  upon  the  assurance 
of  your  compliance  with  them  that  I  trouble  you  with  my  company 
for  a  day  or  two. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  must  entreat  you  to  forbear  all  those  obtru- 
sive attentions,  called  civility,  or  politeness.  I  can't  bear  teazing  ; 
my  nerves  are  irritable.  Thus,  if  I  choose  to  spend  my  day  in  my 
chamber,  you  will  not  bs  rapping  at  my  door,  with  silly  importu- 
nities to  see  your  garden,  or  to  walk,  or  ride,  thinking  that  I  am 
too  much  alone  ;  and  such  frivolity.  I  hate  it.  Again,  if  some- 
times a  strange  ejaculation  pass  my  lips,  don't  lift  your  hands  and 
eyes  to  heaven  with  stupid  admiration  ;  nor  cry — '  Sir  ! — what  did 
you  say?'  In  short,  however  I  may  demean  myself,  be  this  your 
rule — that  as  I  have  capacity  and  will,  so  let  that  will  be  free. 
Now,  by  your  leave,  I'll  to  my  bed  at  once." 

"  We  must,  in  all  respects  comply  with  my  friend's  wishes  ;  and 
cannot  better  show  our  willingness  to  please,  than  by  forbearance 
to  express  as  much,"  said  Barn  well. 

"  'Tis  an  early  hour  to  retire,"  said  Milwood  ;  "  but,  knowing 
your  inclination,  I  willingly  comply." 

Barn  well  conducted  him  to  a  small  chamber.  Mental  grasped  his 
hand — "  We  must  not  talk,"  said  he,  in  a  whisper.  "  My  pen 
shall  do  the  office  of  my  tongue.  Stay  not  here  to-night.  Suffice 
it,  for  the  present — That  I  have  seen  my  daughter! — Go,  or  we 
shall  awake  suspicion.  In  the  morning  be  here,  and  I  will  con- 
trive to  slip  into  your  hand,  unnoticed,  my  written  observations. 
Farewell — Be  resolute." 

Upon  his  return  to  Milwood,  she  overwhelmed  him  with  ques- 
tions respecting  the  stranger :  and  Barnwell  was  compelled  to  per- 
severe in  falsehoods.  Among  other  questions  which  she  put  to 
him — "  Is  he  rich  ?"  said  she. 

'   Very  rich,"  said  Barnwell. 

"  And  who  are  his  heirs?" 

"  He  has  none ;  nor,  at  present,  any  friend  but  me." 

"  Then  you  would  most  probably,  inherit  all  his  wealth,  were 
he  to  die." 

"  Distant,  far  distant  be  the  day  of  his  death  !"  cried  Barnwell, 
"  though  ten  times  his  wealth  should  be  mine  at  that  period." 

Milwood  pondered  a  moment  ;  and  her  expressive  eyes  pro- 
claimed some  mighty  purpose  was  just  then  generated  in  her  brain. 
Barnwell  observed  it  not.  She  made  no  effort  to  detain  him,  when 
he  took  his  leave,  but  suffered  him  to  depart,  with  the  promise  of 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  159 

an  early  visit  in  the  morning.  The  instant  he  was  gone,  she  dis- 
missed her  maid  for  the  evening  ;  and,  shutting  herself  in  her  cham- 
ber, committed  the  offspring  of  her  mind  to  paper,  in  the  form  of  a 
letter  to  the  Chevalier  Zelotti,  an  Italian,  whom  she  met  at  Bologna. 
It  is  necessary  to  observe,  that  this  Italian  was  the  wretch  who 
put  the  finishing  touches  to  the  character  of  Milwood,  whose  real 
history  this  is  the  proper  period  for  disclosing. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  retrace  the  subject  farther  back  than  her 
elopement  from  Mrs.  Orme's  academy  with  Captain  Middleton. 
At  that  epoch  she  possessed  all  the  levity  of  youth,  uncontrolled  by 
principles  of  any  solidity.  Estranged  from  her  parents,  she  felt 
for  them,  or  their  memory,  no  regard.  Her  heart  wanted  an  at- 
tachment, and  Captain  Middleton,  aided  by  the  infamous  Masters, 
accomplished  her  ruin  with  ease. 

Her  residence,  whilst  she  continued  with  Middleton,  was  princi- 
pally at  Tunbridge  Wells  ;  where,  growing  satiated  with  his  object, 
Middleton  deserted  her.  She  flew  to  Mrs.  Masters,  and  having 
made  her  election  for  her  future  course  of  life,  that  woman  instruct- 
ed her  in  many  of  the  arts  necessary  for  the  profession  she  had 
chosen. 

'Twas  at  this  period  she  formed  an  acquaintance  with  the  son  of 

the  Earl  of ,  and  accompanied  him,  through  the  connivance  of 

his  tutor,  in  a  tour  to  several  of  the  courts  of  Europe.  During  the 
period  of  this  connexion,  she  had  ample  opportunities  of  observing 
the  amazing  disparity  of  doctrines  and  practice  among  the  clergy 
of  the  church  of  Rome  ;  a  circumstance  that  unhappily  rivetted  that 
disgust  she  had  cherished  for  religion  in  general. 

At  Bologna,  the  young  nobleman,  her  patron,  continued  a  consi- 
derable time,  in  consequence  of  numerous  recommendations  to  the 
nobility  there,  several  of  whom  were  allied  to  the  maternal  branch- 
es of  his  family.  Here  it  was  that  the  Chevalier  Zelotti  first  pre- 
sented himself  to  Milwood.  She  conceived  a  violent  attachment 
to  his  person,  almost  at  first  sight,  and  a  short  acquaintance  gave 
birth  to  a  reciprocation  of  passion. 

Intrigue,  in  Italy,  is  one  of  the  businesses  of  life  ;  and  the  simi- 
larity of  unshackled  sentiment  soon  removed  every  obstacle  to  the 
gratification  of  their  desires.  The  same  contempt  for  the  laws 
which  govern  society,  the  same  ridicule  of  scruples  under  the  name 
of  prejudices,  the  same  unlimited  gratification  of  their  own  wills, 
actuated  Zelotti  and  Milwood.  The  mind  of  Milwood  was  strong 
and  masculine  ;  but  Zelotti,  in  addition  to  natural  strength  of  intel- 
lect, possessed  the  advantage  of  experience ;  having  received  a 
Monkish  education  ;  having  passed  some  years  in  the  army  ;  and 
having  been  employed  as  private  secretary  to  a  nobleman,  who  was 
some  time  ambassador  at  ^renice. 

When  Milwood  was  obliged  either  to  accompany  the  young  dupe 
of  her  charms  to  England,  or  discover  her  infidelity,  and  remain 
with  Zelotti,  it  was  agreed,  in  consultation,  to  prefer  the  former, 
under  an  engagement  from  Zelotti  to  visit  her  in  England,  as  soon 


160  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

as  his  finances  enabled  him.  They  separated,  but  their  correspon- 
dence had  ever  since  remained  unbroken. 

The  earl  of died  soon  after  the  return  of  his  son  from  the 

continent,  who,  succeeding  to  the  title  and  estate,  dismissed  his 
former  connexions,  and  shortly  after  married. 

At  this  period  Mil  wood  became  distressed,  and  was  compelled, 
for  a  time,  to  accept  the  friendly  offers  of  the  unhappy  Ellen, 
whose  acquaintance  she  had  accidently  acquired  ;  and,  being  seized 
with  a  lingering  illness,  was  almost  reduced  to  want.  Then  it  was 
that  the  portrait  of  her  father  was  disposed  of  by  her  friend,  which 
circumstance  led  Mental  to  the  conclusion  of  her  death. 

In  the  mean  time,  Zelotti  had  so  well  played  his  part  in  Italy, 
that  he  married  the  dowager  of  a  Florentine  merchant,  of  immense 
property,  with  whom  he  resided  a  short  period  ;  and  then,  by  the 
aid  of  poison,  disencumbered  the  possessions  she  brought  him  from 
their  unwelcome  clog.  He  had,  however,  exchanged  his  passion 
for  Milwood  for  a  new  face,  which  presented  itself  in  the  person  of 
a  native  of  Florence,  of  mean  extraction,  who  willingly  accompa- 
nied a  man  of  his  wealth  to  England. 

Their  letters  mutually  acquainted  them  with  each  other's  situa- 
tion, and  the  utmost  freedom  was  used  by  both.  Milwood  did  not 
disdain  to  accept  the  pecuniary  assistance  she  wanted,  and  the  lib- 
erality of  Zelotti  raised  her  from  distress.  Her  indisposition  was 
of  the  most  lingering  nature  ;  and  she  passed  many  months  without 
the  hope  of  recovery. 

During  the  whole  of  this  period  she  resided  at  Southampton,  with 
Zelotti  and  his  mistress  ;  and,  if  the  word  is  not  dishonoured  by  the 
use,  they  lived  in  habits  of  unbounded  friendship,  without  the  return 
of  passion.  As  the  health  of  Milwood  returned,  however,  her 
charms  once  more  appeared,  and  those  desires  revived  strongly  in 
her  bosom  which  she  had  never  aimed  to  control. 

In  this  crisis  of  her  history  she  learnt  from  Zelotti  the  character 
of  Mr.  Emery,  who  was  then  at  Southampton,  and  had  actually  re- 
solved upon  a  conquest  there  ;  when,  from  the  same  source,  she 
gathered  the  intelligence  of  Barnwell's  innocence  and  inexperience, 
and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  changed  her  intention.  The 
success  of  her  attempts  are  thus  far  known.  The  letter  to  Zelotti 
runs  thus : 

"He  is  this  instant  gone. — The  stranger,  I  mentioned  in  my  last 
letter,  sleeps  at  this  moment  in  the  room  above  that  in  which  I  now 
write.  He  appears  an  original.  If  his  history  is  to  be  obtained, 
you  know  me  too  well  to  doubt  my  industry.  He  is  rich,  Zelotfi 
— very  rich  ;  and  Barnwell,  to  a  certainty,  his  inheritor. 

"What  idea  associates  itself  with  this  information  in  yovr  brain? 
When  we  first  sketched  the  outlines  of  our  plan  at  Southampton, 
Sir  James  Barnwell's  death,  you  recollect,  was  decided.  Would 
not  old  Townley's  wealth  buy  the  same  pleasure  as  old  Barnwell's? 
The  one  is  in  our  power  :  a  simple  infusion  in  his  drink  would  send 
him  quietly  away,  and  yield  us  all  we  wish. 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  161 

"  To  accomplish  our  original  design,  I  begin  to  think  it  a  work 
of  greater  labour  than  we  imagined.  The  expense  and  plans  we 
have  already  encountered  have  not  been  trifling.  Blackmore's 
charges  for  the  business  at  Bromplon  are  enormous  ;  and  hitherto 
we  have  received,  in  return,  nothing.  The  forged  acceptance  for 
five  hundred  has  cost  us  three,  and  can  only  be  used  as  an  incentive 
to  that  act,  from  which  the  fruits  of  all  our  labours  are  to  result. 
Should  the  young  sinner  disappoint  us  there,  a  very  fruitful  enter- 
prise it  will  prove  ! 

"  Zelotti,  1  have  ever  held  thee  a  master  in  thine  art  ;  but  really, 
the  arrangements  in  this  affair  add  nothing  to  thy  fame  ! — the  jewel 
scheme  excepted,  (for  which  I  thank  you  :) — the  other  branches  of 
your  plan  I  have  been  so  frequently  compelled  to  alter,  that,  intox- 
icated with  passion  as  Barnwell  is,  I  wonder  at  the  blindness,  which 
has  not,  more  than  once,  detected  contradictions  absolutely  glaring. 
— Here  is  an  oportunity  of  retrieving  your  eminence,  in  my  opinion. 
Exert  it,  man. 

"  There  is  a  sort  of  lethargy,  I  have  observed  of  late,  from  your 
epistles,  has  seized  thee,  my  Zelotti.  Arouse  those  drowsy  facul- 
ties the  hand  of  nature  so  profusely  has  bestowed.  Look  round 
thee,  man,  and  mark  the  eager  zeal  with  which  the  plodding  dupes 
of  laws  and  systems  run  in  their  limited  pursuits ;  their  course 
hedged  in  on  either  hand  by  rules  and  customs,  and  bounded  by  a 
cowardice  of  conscience.  Yet  how  many  of  this  description  are 
there,  who  amass  wealth,  gain  honour,  and  are  borne  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  crowd  !  What,  then,  should  be  their  lofty  daring, 
who  own  no  law  but  prudence,  and  laugh  at  the  nonentity,  called 
Conscience,  which  scares  the  multitude? 

"  Think  on  this,  Zelotti ;  and  say,  if  this  old  Townley  must  not 
be  dismissed  from  the  scenes  of  men  ? — Devize  some  safe  and  cer- 
tain means  of  doing  this,  and  of  ensuring  to  ourselves  the  advantage 
of  his  death. 

"  Good  night — I  seek  my  pillow ; — and  in  my  dreams  I  shall 
doubtless  view  bones,  that  are  '  inarrowless,'  stalk  round  my  cham- 
ber ;  eyes  glare  at  me,  in  which  there  is  '  no  lustre  ;'  and  bloody 
hands,  that  draw  the  curtain  of  my  bed  ! — But,  I  shall  wake,  and 
know  "/ts  but  a  dream.' — Good  night,  once  more,  Zelotti,  says 
your  ELINOR." 


CHAPTER   XL. 

Swift  is  the  flight  of  wealth — unnumber'd  wants, 
Brood  of  voluptuousness,  cry  out  aloud 
Necessity. DYEB. 

AT  the  residence  of  Mr.  Emery  a  general  joy  displayed  itself  for 
the  safety  of  the  captain  ;  and  Barnwell  was  tormented  with  ques- 
tions concerning  the  old  Quiz,  as  Mental  was  denominated  by  the 


162  GEORGE     BJLRNWELL. 

young  ladies.  Mrs.  Emery  herself  summoned  him  to  her  dressing- 
room,  and  tortured  him  with  an  hour's  conversation  on  that  subject ; 
and  on  another,  which  occasioned  him  much  pain. 

"  And  so,"  said  she,  "  the  brute  won't  see  his  creature  of  a 
daughter,  though  he  made  such  a  fuss  about  her,  and  absolutely 
frightened  one  to  death  with  his  challenge  ! — Well — let's  hear  no 
more  of  the  wretch  ! — But,  my  dear  Barnwell,"  continued  she,  "I 
have  another  and  much  more  important  affair  to  mention  to  you — 
an  affair  of  the  heart !  I  shall  be  as  candid  as  possibly  one  can  on 
a  subject  of  such  excessive  delicacy  ;  and  I  am  amazingly  much 
deceived,  if  I  do  not  meet  in  a  mind  like  yours,  susceptible  offender 
impressions,  and  alive  to  those  delicate  sensations,  as  I  may  say — 
that  is — I  mean  sensibility! — softness  of  soul! — and  all  that! — You 
understand  me." 

"  Madam  !"  said  Barnwell,  blushing  deeply.  The  lady,  reclin- 
ing her  head  and  playing  with  her  fan,  continued :  "  I  say — that  is — 
it  is  unnecessary  to  say — but  in  the  present  state  of  society,  when 
marriages  are  entered  into  without  a  consultation  of  that  congeniality 
of  sentiments ;  and  people  are  thrown  together,  as  it  were,  like  blanks 
and  prizes  in  a  lottery ;  why,  it  cannot  be  wondered  at,  that  affec- 
tion should  not  always  follow,  where  parents  or  guardians — Heigh- 
ho  !  It's  excessively  warm,"  (fanning  herself) — "Do,  pray,  throw 
that  door  open." 

It  was  her  chamber  door.    Barnwell  obeyed,  and  was  retiring. 

"  Stay,  sir — I — I — Pray,  Mr.  Barnwell,  can  you  conceive  what 
can  possibly  engage  Mr.  Emery  so  perpetually  from  home?" 

"  No,  madam.     I " 

"  Not  that  I  deem  it  a  misfortune  ;  he  is  so  morose  in  his  man- 
ners of  late,  that,  though  I  never  did,  to  be  sure,  love  the  man,  yet 
one  would  contrive  to  keep  up  appearances.  But  really,  of  late, 
he  has  become  so  indifferent,  that  one's  lot  is  deplorable; — 
and ." 

This  lady  of  fashion  now  began  to  develope  her  intentions  so 
openly,  that  Barnwell  whose  soul  revolted  with  disgust  at  the  dis- 
covery, would  certainly  have  betrayed  that  disgust,  but  for  a  mel- 
ancholy interruption,  which  disclosed  a  passion  of  a  purer  nature. 
The  love-sick  Maria  had  been  permitted  to  sit  up  that  afternoon, 
as  the  violence  of  her  fever  was  abated,  though  succeeded  by  a 
melancholy  of  the  most  painfully  interesting  nature. 

She  had  expressed  her  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Emery,  and  her  atten- 
dant accompanied  her  to  the  dressing-room.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  floor,  as  she  entered,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  attendant. 
She  did  not  perceive  Barnwell 

"If  you  know  he  is  very  wicked,  my  dear  Mrs.  Emery,"  said 
she,  "  you  ought  to  tell  me :  for  how  should  I  have  guessed  at 
such  a  thing — when  his  countenance  was  so  full  of  goodness? — 
What  a  deceiver  he  must  be !  But  don't  you  think  he  will  grow 
tired  of  such  bad  ways? — Poor  young  man ! — well,  well — all  is  for 
the  best!" 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  163 

Mrs.  Emery,  bursting'  with  anger  and  vexation  at  the  interrup- 
tion, was  yet  compelled  to  dissemble. 

Barnwell,  hesitating  whether  to  go  or  stay,  was  pierced  to  the 
heart  at  the  sight  of  the  lovely  mourner.  At  the  intimation  of  her 
nurse,  he  concealed  himself  behind  the  door  as  she  must  have  seen 
him  had  he  retired. 

"  My  good  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Emery,  "  why  do  you  leave  your 
room?" 

"Oh,"  replied  she,  "I  was  so  uneasy,  you  can't  think  ;  for  I 
can't  help  loving  him  : — and  then  you  know,  these  wicked  women 
have  such  arts  to  ensnare  poor  youth  !  And  if  any  harm  were  to 
happen  to  him — why,  then— Mrs.  Emery,  my  poor  head  aches  so 
very  much,  it  makes  me  forget  all  I  was  going  to  say.  But,  sup- 
pose I  was  to  talk  to  him — only  for  his  own  good  ! — He  would  lis- 
ten to  me. — I  am  very  faint — and  very  ill — but  he  is  well — that's  a 
great  happiness  to  knew  he  is  well !  I  had  something  to  ask  you, 
but  my  poor  head  grows  quite  forgetful — so  let  us  go,  nurse — and 
we  will  pray  for  him — Come,  we  will  pray  for  him  !" 

"  Unfortunate  girl !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Emery,  when  Maria  had 
retired. 

"I  am  lost  in  amazement!"  interrupted  Barnwell.  "To  what 
can  the  dear  sufferer  allude?" 

At  that  moment  the  trampling  of  horses  in  the  court-yard  an- 
nounced the  arrival  of  Mr.  Freeman,  who  was  expected,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  ill  state  of  Miss  Freeman's  health. 

Disgusted  at  the  conduct  of  Mrs.  Emery,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment filled  with  compassion  for  the  amiable  Maria,  Barnwell  met 
the  respectable  and  worthy  Mr.  Freeman. 

"  This,  then,  is  the  end  of  my  parting  with  her  !  Why  did  I  trust 
the  staff  of  my  old  age  from  my  sight?  Show  me  to  my  child  !" 

"In  vain  Mrs.  Emery  and  her  daughters  urged  the  impropriety, 
and  even  danger  of  the  interview.  The  fond,  afflicted  father,  was 
deaf  to  reason,  and  would  suffer  no  arguments  to  prevent  him  from 
embracing  the  object  of  all  his  love.  Maria  shrieked  at  the  sight 
of  him — ran  to  his  arms,  and  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom.  A 
fainting  fit  succeeded,  in  which,  except  for  short  intervals,  she  re- 
mained the  whole  night.  The  venerable  old  man  would  not  quit 
the.  bed-side,  but  personally  administered  her  medicines,  and  watch- 
ed her  countenance  with  unwearied  attention. 

Another  event  of  the  same  evening  occasioned  Barnwell  fresh 
food  for  conjecture,  and  some  uneasiness.  He  had  retired  at  the 
usual  hour  and  upon  entering  the  breakfast  room,  the  next  morning, 
was  surprised  to  find  it  empty.  In  a  few  minutes  his  surprise  was 
increased,  by  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Rigby,  in  a  pair  of  red  slippers, 
his  hair  undressed,  and  his  whole  appearance  indicating  that  he  had 
slept  in  the  house — 

"  There,  my  boy,  as  good  as  a  prophet !"  cried  he,  before  Barn- 
well  had  recovered  himself — "  Knew  it  was  upon  the  totter ! — Saw 
it  going — going — and  now  it's  gone!" 


164  GEORGE      BARSWELL. 

"  Sir !"  said  BarnweU. 

"  Tell  you  all  about  it.  I  was  at  Margate — charming  assembly 
— fine  girls — six  belles  to  a  beau — gives  one  consequence — didn't 
choose  a  dance — an  hundred  ogling  me — kept  up  my  dignity — strut- 
ted about  the  rooms — lounged  among  the  card  folks — flattered  the 
old  dowagers,  and  made  them  throw  away  their  aces." 

"  But  what  is  all  this?"  said  BarnweU. 

"  Coming  to  the  point. — As  I  stood  leaning,  in  a  pick-tooth  atti- 
tude, upon  old  Lady  Snowdrop's  chair,  very  attentive  to  a  trick  in 
diamonds,  we  were  all  frightened  out  of  our  wits  by  a  sudden  ex- 
clamation of '  D n!'  as  loud  as  the  echo  of  Ashley's  double 

drums  !  1  knew  the  voice — 'Twas  Emery's ;  every  body  was  up, 
the  cards  were  mixed,  candles  thrown  down,  and  the  whole  room 
in  complete  consternation  ! — The  tremendous  word,  that  occasioned 
such  an  effect,  was  but  the  overture  to  the  piece  that  succeeded  ; 
in  which  Emery,  Middleton,  a  captain  of  the  Guards,  and  the  dear 
darling  of  an  eminent  distiller,  were  performers,  both  vocal  and  in- 
strumental, their  vociferations  of  abuse  being  accompanied  by  the 
jarring  of  pokers,  candlesticks,  and  chairs!" 

"  Proceed,  sir,"  cried  BarnweU,  "  if  under  all  this  embellish- 
ment there  is  any  matter  of  fact " 

"  Oh,  excusez  moi,  my  dear  fellow — truth,  to  a  word,  on  my  ho- 
nour— the  antagonists  were  at  last  parted  ;  the  cause  of  dispute 
was  blown—foul  play — The  distiller's  son  had  detected  Middleton, 
at  a  time  when  some  thousands  were  against  the  former.  Emery 
was  charged  as  an  accomplice.  Swords  and  pistols  followed  of 
course,  and  an  immediate  meeting  was  agreed  on.  Emery  saw 
me,  and  entreated  me  to  break  the  affair  at  home  ;  and  thus  ends 
the  first  part  of  the  chapter  of  accidents." 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Mr.  Rigby?"  said  Barnwell  :  "  really  in 
earnest ;  serious  I  don't  expect  you  to  be." 

"  Real  right  earnest,  upon  my  honour." 

"  And  where  is  Mr.  Emery?  Is  he  safe?" 

"  Excusez  moi — can't  say — Drove  to  town  like  furies — Justices 
had  took  the  alarm,  and  would  suffer  no  meeting  at  Margate — 
'Twas  quite  a  blaze — the  whole  town  in  an  uproar." 

"  The  event  is  uncertain,  then  ?'"  cried  Barnwell. 

"  Quite  so.     A  hit  or  a  miss,  that's  the  hazard." 

"  And  Mrs.  Emery  and  the  ladies " 

"  Have  cried  and  fainted,  and  gone  to  sleep." 

"Good  God!  what  indifference  about  the  life  of  a  fellow- 
creature!"  said  Barnwell;  and  bursting  in  anger  from  Rigby, 
learned  from  the  servants  that  the  most  material  part  of  his  narra- 
tive was  too  true. — The  ladies,  in  anxious  expectation  of  tidings, 
remained  in  their  room — whilst  Lord  Morley  and  Mr.  Eastwood 
had  gone  post  to  London- 

The  most  scrupulous  care  was  taken  to  prevent  a  breath  of  this 
intelligence  reaching  the  ears  of  Mr.  Freeman,  who  still  kept  watch 
by  the  bed-side  of  his  daughter.  All  Ramsgate,  however,  rung 


GEORGE     BARVWEL1.  1G5 

with  the  story,  coloured  and  improved  by  every  retailer.  Reports 
flew  thick  and  fast.  The  house  was  beset  with  inquirers  ;  and 
Barnwell,  fully  occupied  with  attending  Mrs.  Emery  and  her 
daughters,  and  answering  the  politely  curious  inquisitors,  found  it 
•would  be  impossible  to  see  Mental  or  Milwood  that  day,  and  there- 
fore despatched  a  note,  announcing  the  event. 

From  the  answer  of  Mental,  he  learned,  that  he  had  entered  into 
a  conversation  with  his  daughter  that  morning,  in  which,  as  Mental 
expressed  it,  "  he  had  discovered  she  possessed  a  vigorous  mind, 
a  quick  fancy,  and  some  acquired  knowledge  ;  but  when  I  gazed 
on  her  countenance,"  continued  he,  "  my  memory  rose  in  war 
against  me  ;  the  image  of  her  murdered  mother  stood  before  me, 
and  I  was  compelled  to  fly  the  vision.  I  have  shut  myself  up  in 
my  chamber ;  I  have  reasoned  with  the  inward  chidings  of  my 
soul  ;  I  have  struggled  to  obtain  acquittal  of  myself,  and  found  that 
struggle  hard.  When  late  I  stood  upon  the  grave's  brink,  I  was 
less  shaken.  I  felt  no  pangs  for  an  irretrievable  act  of  homicide  ; 
but  the  resemblance  grew  upon  me,  fastened  on  my  mind,  and  con- 
jured up  the  thousand  vain  regrets  I  thought  forever  buried. 
Those  gloomy  thoughts,  which  I  oft  indulged  at  the  still,  midnight 
hour  in  the  old  Abbey's  aisle,  now  beset  me,  and  attract  the  mind 
from  more  useful  occupations.  Something  we  must  determine  soon 
respecting  this  lost  woman  ! —  *  *  *  *  — Whispers 
passed  my  chamber  door — They  are  continued.  In  detecting  arti- 
fice, art  must  sometimes  be  used.  Much  as  I  abhor  listening,  from 
mere  curiosity,  the  stake  of  happiness  we  hold  in  all  that  concerns 
this  Unfortunate  compels  me — I  will  listen.  This  is  what  I  heard 
her  say 

"  '  Give  him  this  letter  ;  and  tell  him,  his  Elinor  never  wanted 
the  aid  of  her  Zelotti  so  much  as  at  this  moment.  He  could  not 
have  arrived  at  a  more  interesting  period.  Say,  I  expect  him  most 
impatiently.  Adieu.' 

"  From  the  window  of  my  chamber,  I  see  her  attend  a  person, 
in  a  travelling  dress,  along  the  gravel  walk  to  the  wicket.  Who 
is  the  Zelotti  ? — Come  to  me  as  soon  as  possible — Our  situation  be- 
comes interesting.  MENTAL." 

Such  was  the  conclusion  of  the  letter  Barnwell  received  from  the 
cottage. 

Many  hours  of  anxiety  were  endured  by  Barnwell,  ere  any  cer- 
tain intelligence  was  received  concerning  Mr.  Emery.  About  ten 
at  night  Lord  Morley  and  Mr.  Eastwood  returned. 

Mr.  Emery  had  received  a  very  severe  wound  in  the  head,  and 
the  ball  was  not  extracted,  at  their  departure  fram  Portland  Place. 
Captain  Middleton  had  dangerously  wounded  his  antagonist,  and 
had  set  off  immediately  for  Hamburgh. 

To  conceal  the  danger  of  Mr.  Emery's  situation  from  his  family, 
it  was  settled  that  they  should  continue  for  the  present  at  Rams- 
gate,  and  be  merely  informed  that  a  meeting  had  taken  place,  and 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  166 

Mr.  Emery  slightly  wounded,  but  forbid  to  travel  for  a  day  or  two, 
when  he  would  return  to  them. 

About  noon,  the  following  day,  a  post-chaise  and  four  drove  into 
the  court-yard,  and  Mr.  Drudge,  the  acting  partner  in  the  concern 
of  Freeman,  Emery,  &  Co.  was  in  a  few  seconds  in  the  hall. 
Barnwell  received  him. 

"  Mr.  Freeman  !  Mr.  Freeman  !  Where's  Mr.  Freeman.  Let 
me  see  Mr.  Freeman,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Drudge. 

The  rattling  of  the  chaise,  the  loud  talking  of  Mr.  Drudge,  and 
the  bustle  of  the  servants  alarmed  the  whole  family,  who,  with  Mr. 
Freeman  himself,  were  immediately  assembled,  to  inquire  the  occa- 
sion of  such  a  noise.  Soon  as  Mr.  Drudge  saw  Mr.  Freeman,  he 
ran  to  him,  and  grasping  his  hand 

"Oh,  sir! — prepare  yourself — prepare  yourself — such  tidings! 
— such  discoveries! — Good  God  !" 

Mr.  Freeman  trembled — Mrs.  Emery  and  the  ladies  almost 
fainted — whilst  Lord  Morley  and  Mr.  Eastwood  stood  motionless, 
with  a  stupid  stare  of  vacancy. 

"  Is  Mr.  Emery  dead?"  exclaimed  Barnwell. 

"  Oh,  worse,  worse  than  death — He  is  a ruined  man  ! — and 

much  I  fear  his  ruin  will  extend  to  more  than  him.  Oh,  my  dear 
sir,  when  I  think  what  you  must  feel !" — still  grasping  Mr.  Free- 
man's hand 

"  Ruin  ! — ruin  !"  exclaimed  the  worthy  Mr.  Freeman  ;  and, 
placing  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  cried — "  Strengthen  me.  good 
Heaven  !" 

Lord  Morley  and  Mr.  Eastwood  gaped  at  each  other,  and  the 
rest  of  the  company ;  and  the  latter,  at  length  proposed  taking  the 
ladies  into  another  room,  whilst  Mr.  Drudge  explained  to  Mr. 
Freeman.  Barnwell  remained. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Emery?"    cried  Mr.  Freeman. 

It  now  became  necessary  to  acquaint  him  with  the  affair  at  Mar- 
gate ;  and  Mr.  Drudge  added — "  The  report  of  such  conduct  soon 
buzzed  about  London,  and  no  less  than  ten  arrests  were  that  morn- 
ing issued  against  him  ;  and  notwithstanding  the  poor  man  is  abso- 
lutely delirious  from  his  wound,  he  has  been  removed  to  a  spung- 
ing-house.  In  the  house  at  Portland  Place  there  are  already  four 
executions ;  as  many  in  Broad  Street,  and  at  the  Pavilion.  De- 
mands upon  demands,  to  such  amounts  that  astonish  me,  flock  so 
fast  one  after  another,  that  to  procure  bail  is  impossible  ;  and  repa- 
ration seems  beyond  the  reach  of  human  hands." 

Such  was  Mr.  Drudge's  unvarnished  tale  ;  and  its  effect  upon 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Freeman  may  be  conceived,  but  cannot  be  ex- 
pressed. 

"For  this  have  I  nourished  thee — thou  Ingrate!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Freeman. — "  Villain  ! — hypocrite  ! — smiling,  systematic  vil- 
lain ! — What  must  be  done?  You,  too,  honest  man,  the  sweat  of 
whose  brows  have  furnished  this  monster  with  luxuries — you,  too, 
must  be  involved  in  his  ruin  !" 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  167 

"  To  be  sure  I  must  suffer— my  wife  and  children  must  suffer !" 
said  Mr.  Drudge.  "  But,  O,  sir,  /  am  a  young  man  yet ;  but  you, 
you,  sir — who  have  grown  old  in  the  respect  of  the  world,  and 
have  acquired  a  right  to  the  comforts  of  age— you,  sir,  must  be  a 
sufferer,  indeed! — Your  amiable  daughter  too ." 

"  Hold,  hold,  hold  !"  cried  Freeman  :  "  there  you  touch  my  soul ! 
But  how  can  you  so  long  have  deceived  us  both  ?" 

"  Alas  !  sir,  /  have  long  suspected  when  balance  after  balance 
has  been  against  us,  but  he  was  so  ready  with  specious  excuses. 
At  one  time  he  pretended  money  was  locked  up  in  the  hands  of 
government ;  at  another,  speculations  of  the  boldest  nature  in  the 
funds,  and  as  they  had  all  your  sanction " 

"  My  sanction  ! — I  never  dreamt  of  such  proceedings.  Month 
after  month  he  remitted  to  me  statements  of  the  concerns,  that 
showed  an  increasing,  very  increasing  balance  in  our  favour." 

"  Good  God,  what  villany  !— Sir,  he  has  repeatedly,  again  and 
again,  assured  me  you  knew  the  facts,  and  approved  them ;  while, 
at  the  same  moment,  he  must  have  been  remitting,  for  your  inspec- 
tion, statements  of  his  own  fabrication." 

"Can  human  nature  be  so  base!"  said  Mr.  Freeman.  "But 
what  can  be  done  ?  How  are  we  to  learn  the  amount  of  debts 
against  us  ?" 

"  A  meeting  must  be  instantly  called,"  said  Mr.  Drudge. 

"  Oh,  just  Heaven,  help  me  to  support  it! — At  my  time  of  life, 
must  I,  after  having  so  many  years  enjoyed  the  good  opinion  of 
my  brother  merchants,  must  I  now  be  reduced  to  stand  downcast 
before  my  creditors,  and  own  myself  connected  with  a  swindler? 
How  shall  I  bear  it?'' — (Tears  actually  rolled  down  his  cheeks.) 
— "  Had  he  buried  a  dagger  in  my  heart,  it  had  been  mercy,  to  a 
deed  like  this!" 

Barn  well  who  trembled  for  the  effects  of  this  stoppage,  upon  his 
own  crime,  was  scarcely  able  to  speak  ;  yet  the  tears  of  such  a  man 
as  Mr.  Freeman  roused  him  to  attempt  something  like  consolation. 

"  Not  on  you,  sir,"  said  he,  "  not  on  you  will  disgrace  fall, 
whose  actions " 

"  The  world,  in  these  cases,  seldom  discriminates,  young  man. 
What  will  my  tenants,  my  neighbours  say,  when  my  house,  my 
lands,  my  very  furniture,  is  lotted  out  for  sale,  to  pay  my  creditors, 
perhaps  a  fourth,  an  eighth,  of  their  just  debts? — And  you,  too,  my 
Maria — poor  dear  girl  !" — (He  dropped  on  his  knees.) — "  Take 
her — take  her,  gracious  God.  to  thine  own  kingdom  !  Let  her  not 
rise  from  the  bed  of  sickness  to  a  beggar's  lot!" 

A  considerable  time  passed  before  this  injured  merchant  could, 
with  any  composure,  discuss  what  steps  should  be  adopted.  At 
length  it  was  agreed  to  summon  a  meeting  of  their  creditors. 
When  this  was  arranged 

"  There  is  one  circumstance  more,  which  I  think  I  had  better 
mention,  lest  you  hear  it  by  some  other  channel.  The  connexions 
of  Mr.  Emery  have,  lately,  been  of  the  worst  kind  imaginable, 


168  GEORGE     BARNWELt. 

To  some  gamblers  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  bills  for  large  sums, 
payable  by  the  firm.  Among  others,  I  was  shown  one,  for  five 
hundred  pounds,  which  a  Jew  broker  had  discounted,  as  he  termed 
it,  and  which  I  am  certain  is  a  FORGERY.  It  wants  some  time  of 
being  due.  Now,  in  all  probability,  this  is  not  the  only  one." 

Like  lightning,  the  word  FORGERY  struck  the  brain  of  Barnwell. 
— "  I  am  ill,"  cried  he,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room.  In  the  hall 
he  stood  for  a  few  moments  ;  then,  with  the  swiftness  of  despera- 
tion, left  the  house,  uncovered,  and  ran  in  a  straight  direction,  for 
a  very  considerable  distance,  without  any  determination  as  to  where 
he  would  fly. 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

The  fortunate  have  many  parasites  :  Hope  is  the  only  one,  that  vouchsafes  attend- 
ance upon  the  wretched  and  the  beggar.  —  SHENSTONE. 

A  SCENE  of  confusion  followed  the  abrupt  departure  of  Barnwell  . 
Nothing  but  madness  could  be  devised  as  the  cause  of  such  a  pro- 
ceeding. Servants  were  despatched  in  every  direction  in  pursuit 
of  him,  and  even  amidst  the  general  ruin  that  threatened  them, 
each  individual  of  the  family  felt  a  sincere  regret  for  the  fate  of  one 
so  universally  esteemed  and  beloved. 

Miss  Freeman  continuing  too  ill  to  be  removed,  and  Mr  Emery 
being  in  an  unfit  situation  to  receive  his  wife  and  daughters,  it  was 
settled  that  the  ladies  should  remain,  for  the  present,  at  Ramsgate  ; 
whilst  absolute  necessity  compelled  the  distracted  father  of  Maria 
to  accompany  Mr.  Drudge  immediately  to  London. 

"  It  was  at  this  most  critical  moment  that  Sir  James  Barnwell, 
accompanied  by  the  sage  Sandall,  arrived  at  Ramsgate  ;  and,  from 
-  's  hotel,  addressed  the  following  note  to  Mr.  Emery. 


.     .  a 

a  communication  from  his  mother  to  deliver  to  him. 

"  '  " 


This  note  was  delivered  to  Mrs.  Emery,  who  was  wholly  inca- 
pable of  answering  it,  and  handed  it  over  to  Lord  Morley,  who,  in 
turn,  conveyed  it  to  Mr.  Eastwood,  when  the  following  private 
dialogue  ensued  : 

Lord  Morley.  "  What  the  devil's  to  be  done,  Eastwood?  Posi- 
tively, all  this  kind  of  uproariness,  as  one  may  call  it,  so  absolutely 
deranges  one's  ideas,  I  am  scarcely  compos  mentis.1' 

Eastwood.  "  Precisely  my  feelings,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  lord. 
I  never  was  more  completely  ennui  since  I  have  existed.  Really, 
my  lord,  it's  a  species  of  suicide  to  remain  amidst  such  scenes.  For 
my  own  part,  I  —  I  had  it  in  contemplation  to  have  raised  the  siege, 


CBOROE    BARN  WELL".  169 

even  had  not  the  man's  character  been  disclosed  in  such  most 
shocking  colours;  for  I  don't  know  my  lord,  how  you  may  have 
been  treated,  but  the  insolence  of  Charlotte  has  lately  been  intol- 
erable." 

Lord  M.  "How  exactly  similar  are  our  sensations.  Really, 
one  is  apt  to  be  blinded  by  affection ;  but,  of  late,  my  eyes  have 
been  much  undeceived  respecting  Miss  Emery — such  vanity  in  both 
the  girls ! " 

E.  "  Such  coquetry  !" 

Lord  M.  "  Such  lovers  of  scandal !" 

E.  "  Such  inanity  of  mind  !" 

Lord  M.  "  Such  paucity  of  ideas  !" 

E.  "  Such  poverty  of  language  !" 

Lord  M.  "  And  then,  how  far  from  beauties  !" 

E.  "  They  both  paint !" 

Lord  M.  "  And  paint  ungracefully  !" 

E.  "  They  dress  ridiculously  !" 

Lord  M.  "  And  yet  extravagantly !" 

E.  "  And  as  to  fortune !" 

Lord  M.  "  There's  the  rub !" 

E.  "  Positively,  my  lord,  one's  character  is  at  stake  in  remain- 
ing here  any  longer !" 

Lord  M.  "  Will  you  oblige  me  with  your  company  a  few  days 
atMorley  Park?" 

E.  "My  dear  lord,  you  overwhelm  me!  How  can  I  possibly 
be  so  well,  or  so  happily  employed,  as  in  Lord  Morley's  charming 
society !" 

Lord  M.  "  We'll  start  directly.  You've  a  ready  pen  ;  answer 
this  old  gentleman's  note ;  and  leave  one,  in  our  joint  names,  for 
Mrs.  Emery.  I'll  order  the  carriages." 

His  lordship  retired,  and  Mr.  Eastwood  wrote  the  following : 

"SIR — From  tlic  tenor  of  your  note  to  Mr.  Emery,  it  is  evident  you  are  unacquainted 
will)  lute  events  that  have  taken  place  in  that  person's  family.  Mr.  Emery  has  been 
proved  a  most  unprincipled  gamester  ;  and.  in  consequence  of  some  unfair  transac- 
tion, bus  been  called  out  and  severely  wounded.  The  rumour  of  this  aff>iir  brought  a 
swift  succession  of  demands  upon  the  house,  which  appears  to  be  in  a  most  wretched 
and  beggarly  state  of  insolvency.  Mr.  Freeman,  and  the  other  person  concerned,  are 
ol.so  ruined,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word.  Your  nephew,  overcome  by  these  events, 
or  some  other  cause,  has  become  deranged.  He  left  the  house  in  a  fit  of  insanity  this 
morninir,  and  has  not  since  been  heard  of.  It  is  truly  afflicting  to  a  delicate  mind,  to 
relate  such  events ;  hut  as  Mrs.  Emery  is  unfit  for  such  a  task,  it  has  devolved  upon, 
sir,  your  most  obedient,  H.  EASTWOOD." 

"  Sir  J.  Barn'xell, '«  Hotel." 

"  Lord  Morley,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Eastwood,  most  cruelly  tortured  at  the  events 
v.  hich  have  t.iken  place  in  Mrs.  Emery's  family,  would  merit  the  severest  censure,  if, 
by  their  presence,  they  continued  to  remind  the  unfortunate  of  their  former  situation 
in  life.  They  are  sensible,  therefore,  that  they  are  consulting  Mrs.  and  Miss  Emerys' 
tenderness  of  feeling,  when  they  resolve  to  save  them  the  pain  of  a  farewell,  under 
their  present  circumstances.  Lord  M.  and  Mr.  E.  will  never  cease  to  remember,  most 
gratefully,  the  many  civilities  they  have  received  from  every  branch  of  the  family; 
and  will  feel  infinite  satisfaction  if,  at  any  time,  the  exigencies  of  that  family  can  be 
relieved  either  by  their  advice,  or  their  fortunes." 

"  Mr*.  Emery," 


170  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

Thus  fled  these  summer  friends,  at  the  first  blast  of  wintry  ad- 
versity. How  different  the  conduct  of  the  worthy  Sir  James  Barn- 
well!  Soon  as  he  had  perused  Mr.  Eastwood's  note,  he  repaired 
to  the  house  of  mourning ;  nor  did  the  heartfelt  sorrow,  which 
seized  him  on  his  nephew's  account,  prevent  him  from  tendering 
every  consolation  in  his  power  to  the  unfortunate  Emerys. 

These  ladies  felt  the  change  of  circumstances  severely  indeed. 
Mother  and  daughters  so  resembled  each  other  in  their  feelings, 
that  one  description  serves  each  and  all.  Uneducated  in  any  true 
principles  of  religion  or  morality,  they  had  borne  prosperity  too  ill 
to  sustain  adversity  with  fortitude.  When  they  were  surrounded 
by  the  luxuries  and  dainties  of  life,  and  seemed  placed  on  an  emi- 
nence above  the  reach  of  want  or  wo,  they  had  never  been  taught 
to  reflect  upon  the  means  by  which  they  were  thus  exalted  whilst 
millions  of  their  fellow-creatures  struggled  to  endure  existence : 
they  never  reflected  it  was  that  chance  "  in  the  affairs  of  men" 
which  gave  them  wealth,  and  others  want ;  but,  vainly  arrogating 
to  themselves  a  visionary  superiority  in  the  scale  of  human  beings, 
called  not  the  poor  their  brethren.  Instead,  therefore  of  allevia- 
ting the  consequences  of  that  inequality  in  society,  (which  expe- 
rience seems  to  pronounce  inevitable,)  the  occupation  of  their  lives 
was  to  increase  that  splendour,  which  dazzled — but  never  cheered, 
the  poor!  The  feelings  of  benevolence,  the  impulse  of  charity, 
the  glow  of  sensibility,  are  words  they  may  have  heard,  but  emo- 
tions they  had  never  felt.  How  pitiable,  then,  their  present  situa- 
tion. In  an  instant  that  pinnacle,  on  which  they  were  exalted, 
sinks;  and  from  affluence  to  poverty  is  but  the  journey  of  an  hour. 
The  sentiments  they  had  imbibed  continue  ;  and,  judging  from  their 
own  feelings,  they  consider  themselves,  of  course,  objects  of  con- 
tempt to  the  rich  ;  whilst  at  the  same  time,  fallen  pride  is  naturally 
the  ridicule,  of  the  poor. 

The  benevolent  knight  in  vain  offered  consolation  to  minds  the 
victims  of  childish  fretfulness : — sobs,  tears,  and  fits  succeeding 
fits,  prevented  the  voice  of  reason  from  approaching  their  ears. 
Turning,  therefore,  from  so  vain  an  effort,  he  rendered  them, 
unknown  to  themselves,  a  most  essential  service. 

The  proprietor  of  the  ready  furnished  house  they  occupied  had 
expressed,  in  his  hearing,  his  wish  they  should  quit  his  premises, 
as  he  saw  no  chance  of  ever  being  paid.  Sir  James  became  respon- 
sible, and  the  landlord  became  quiet. — Meanwhile,  he  had  not  neg- 
lected any  steps  immediately  necessary  for  the  discovery  of  his 
nephew.  Hand-bills  were  printed,  and  brought  home,  describing 
his  person  and  dress,  and  were  about  to  be  circulated,  when  a  fish- 
erman brought  a  letter,  "which,"  he  said,  "  a  strange  young  gen- 
tleman wrote,  at  a  public  house  in  Sandwich,  where  he  was,  and 
gave  him  a  crown  to  bring  it  to  this  house."  It  bore  this  direction 
— "  Let  any  person,  except  the  servants,  open  it. — G.  B." 

Sir  James  broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows : — 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  171 

"  George  Barnwcll  entreats  most  earnestly,  that  his  abrupt  departure,  and  his  ab- 
sence may  be  most  scrupulously  concealed  from  the  knowledge  of  his  mother,  his  sis- 
ter, and  his  uncle.  Whoever  is  officious  enough  to  hint  it  to  either,  must  answer  for 

the  most  dreadful    consequences. A  day — only  a  day  or  two,  at  most,  he  begs 

upon  his  knees,  for  the  concealment  of  this  act. — If  he  returns  not  by  to-morrow  night, 
discovery  mutt  take  place — for  he  will  return  ere  then — or  never  ! — Any  at- 
tempts to  discover  him,  uow,  will  be  fatal.    Again  he  implores,  in  pity  to  his  mother, 
to  his  sister,  to  his  uncle,  aud  in  mercy  to  himself,  secrecy  for  a  day  1" 

While  Sir  James  held  this  note  in  his  hand,  and  just  as  he  wiped 
a  tear  from  his  eyes,  entered  Mr.  Sandall.  He  had  heard  the 
state  of  Mr.  Emery's  affairs,  and  accordingly  followed  his  patron 
to  enjoy  the  whole,  true,  and  full  account,  as  a  most  ample  meal 
of  scandal,  upon  which  poisonous  food  he  loved  to  gormandize. 

Obsequiously  cringing,  as  he  held  the  door  in  his  hand — "  I  fear, 
Sir  James,  I  intrude — I — " 

" O,  Mr.  Sandall,"  cried  the  knight,  "my  poor  nephew 

Read— read!" 

"Alas,  alas!"  said  Sandall,  when  he  had  perused  it.  "Ay, 
this  is  always  the  end  of  such  fiery,  uncontrollable  youths.  I  was 
afraid  what  would  be  his  conduct,  ever  since  he  so  obstinately  re- 
sisted our  argument  upon  apparitions  ; — there  was  too  much  inquir- 
ing, doubting,  heresy,  about  that  youth  ;  and  then,  his  connecting 
himself  with  that  impious,  atheistical  Illuminati,  Mental ;  for  I  have 
proofs  that  he  is  one  ;  or  else  what  could  the  meaning  of  his  mystic 
coffin  lid,  and  his  skull,  and  his  nightly  orgies  in  the  abbey?" 

"  Silence — silence,"  cried  Sir  James.  "  You  judge  too  quickly 
to  judge  impartially.  May  it  not  prove  that  some  youthful  indiscre- 
tions have  brought  on  embarrassments,  of  which  he  is  ashamed? — 
But  what  can  he  mean  by  a  day  or  two's  concealment?  So  sudden- 
ly to  leave  the  house,  too—It  is  all  extraordinary  !" 

"  It  is  extraordinary,"  said  Sandall,  who  never  differed  many 
moments  from  his  patron's  opinion. 

"  To  acquint  his  mother  with  the  affair  at  present,  would  be 
cruel." 

"  It  would  be  cruel,"  cried  Sandall. 

"  And  would  answer  no  end,"  said  Sir  James. 

"  No  end  at  all,"  rejoined  Sandall. 

The  result  of  their  deliberations  was,  to  continue  their  search  and 
inquiries  after  the  poor  fugitive,  and  at  least,  for  a  day  or  two,  to 
keep  his  mother  and  sister  ignorant  of  the  event. 


CHA  PTER   XLII. 

But  grant  that  those  can  conquer,  these  can  clfeat, 
"Tig  phrase  absurd  to  cull  a  villain  grertl : 
Who  wickedly  is  wise,  or  madly  brave> 
Is  but  the  more  a  fool,  the  more  a  kmive. — Porr. 

WHILE  such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  Emery's,  the  following 
letter,  from  Milwood  to  Zelotti,  will  unfold  the  scenes  passing  at 

8 


172  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

the  cottage.  It  was  written  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which 
Barnwell  fled. 

"ZELOTTI — Hasten,  on  the  wings  of  mighty  Mischief! — Events  are  rapidly  suc- 
ceeding each  other,  of  high  and  interesting  import.  There  are  materials  now  ready  to 
our  hands,  Zelotti,  of  which  thy  matchless  talents  might  frame  fabrics  of  felicity  for 
thy  Milwood,  that  will  exist  with  her  existence.  In  plain  terms,  there  is  wealth  ready 
to  be  gathered,  that  shall  furnish  all  the  goods  of  existence,  all  the  pleasures,  enjoy- 
ments, and  voluptuousness  of  living,  as  long  as  I  shall  live. 

"  This  will  meet  you,  I  hope,  near  my  present  humble  cottage.  I  intend  it  merely 
as  a  plan  of  the  camp  you  are  entering.  The  stranger  is  rich,  I  am  convinced  beyond 
all  doubt  There  lie  in  a  chair,  by  hU  bed-side,  two  packets,  sealed ;  only  part  of  their 
contents  were,  therefore,  visible  to  the  prying  eye.  I  could  discover  enough,  how- 
ever, to  know  that  Barnwell  is  the  sole  possessor  of  his  wealth  after  his  decease  ;  and 
the  words,  '  estates  in  Hertfordshire,  jewels,  cash,  &c.,'  I  could  catch  glimpses  of.  On 
the  same  chair  is  a  casket,  doubtless  the  repository  of  these  jewels.  My  hand  is  eager 
for  the  blow,  Zelotti  ! 

"  From  old  Townley,  let  me  lead  you  to  another  character. — Emery  has  thrown  his 
die,  and  lost ! — We  ever,  you  know,  concluded  that  would  be  the  case.  Half  villains 

and  half  wits  never  thrive  in  this  planet  of  the  system Perhaps  they  may  do 

better,  should  they  hereafter  tenant  the  moon!  Middleton  too — rejoice  with  me,  my 
friend — Middleton  is  compelled  to  fly  the  kingdom,  whilst  Emery,  whom  he  has  long 
made  his  staff  of  life,  is  reduced  to  beggary.  This  is  all  well — this  is  a  most  delicious 
draught  for  the  thirst  of  proud  revenge  !  But  it  shall  not  intoxicate  the  sober  Mil- 
woodl  No,  Zelotti ; — 'twere  but  a  puny  gratification  for  a  mind  like  mine,  did  it  end 
here  ;  but  murk  the  consequences: — The  forged  acceptance  of  five  hundred  pounds, 
on  which  our  tool  Blackmore  advanced  me  three,  you  recollect,  he  was  to  reserve  in 
bis  own  possession  till  nearly  due  ;  but  the  needy  rogue  broke  his  promise,  and  dis- 
counted it  to  some  Jew,  or,  in  other  words,  sold  it  for  three  hundred  and  ei.'iity. — 
This  bill,  naturally  enough,  was  suspected,  and  Blackmore  was  acquainted  with  the 
circumstance.  This  discovery,  and  the  dread  of  gome  others,  gave  wings  to  the  man 
of  law,  and  by  this  time  he  is  on  his  voyage  to  America.  The  boy  Barnwell,  terrified 
beyond  all  measure,  at  this  discovery,  fled  from  his  friends,  like  a  lunatic,  the  moment 
he  heard  it ;  and  having  rambled  the  whole  of  this  day  without  food,  by  secret  paths, 
and  under  cover  of  the  night,  arrived  here  about  an  hour  ago.  Of  all  the  compositions 
of  human  nature,  that  I  have  hitherto  studied,  he  is  by  far  the  nearest  to  that  standard, 
which  is  called  good  in  society :  of  course  the  best  adapted  to  our  purpose  ;  for  do  we 
not  know,  Zelotti,  that  the  wicked  are  wary?  Had  Barnwell  brought  with  him.  to 
Berners  Street,  polluted  passions,  would  he  so  easily  have  fallen  our  victim  ? — Had 
Barnwell  been  in  the  habit  of  dissembling,  would  he  have  scrupled  to  have  told  some 
varnished  tale  to  Emery,  as  an  excuse  for  borrowing  three  hundred  pounds  ?  Or,  had 
his  heart  been  cased  in  adamant,  as  Middleton's,  as  ours,  as  half  mankind's  are,  would 
he  have  committed  himself  to  the  risk  of  death  to  have  preserved  another's  life  .'  Oh. 
never! — But  no  matter  by  what  means  we  have  ensnared  him;  he  is  now  as  completely 
in  my  power  as  my  heart  can  wish.  I  am  not  altogether  sorry  you  are  not  here,  till  I 
have  disposed  of  him.  He  is  concealed  in  the  chamber  which  must  be  yours. — Most 
fortunately  for  us  he  refuses  to  see  old  Townley,  and  begs  earnestly  that  he  may  not 
be  acquainted  with  big  arrival. 

"  Nor  is  this  all : — as  if  chance  itself  had  espoused  our  cause,  it  has  directed,  just  at 
this  momentous  crisis,  Barnwell's  uncle  to  Ramsgate,  who  has  taken  up  his  residence 
at  the  house  where  Emery  resided.  This  event  has  filled  me  with  ambitious,  bold 
desires ! 

'•  What  think  you,  Zelotti ;  is  it  not  possible  to  combine  our  schemes,  and  by  a 
double  blow,  accomplish  the  dismissal  of  Townley  and  old  Barnwell  both  ?  'Twould 

be  a  glorious  achievement,  and  its  result  would  be  a  consonant  reward. Hush  ! 

Twas  Barnwell  stealing  from  his  chamber;  he  tapped  at  my  door, 

and  I  had  just  sufficient  time  to  conceal  my  letter,  when  he  entered  more  like  a  spectre 
than  a  man — his  hair  dishevelled,  his  eyes  red  with  weeping,  his  cheeks  and  lips  pale 
as  consumption.  Speechless,  he  tottered  towards  my  chair,  and  seated  himself  on  the 
floor  at  my  feet,  reclining  his  head  on  my  lap. 

"  As  old  Townley  sleeps  in  the  room  above,  I  dared  not  suffer  him  to  speak.  I  forced 
him  to  swallow  a  cordial,  and  have  prevailed  on  him  to  throw  himself  upon  the  bed. 
He  slumbers;  but  his  mind,  even  in  sleep,  is  haunted.  At  intervals  be  pronounces 
'Milwood  '  so  loudly  that  if  old  Townley  wakes,  he  must  surely  hear  it.  At  other  times 
he  calls  upon  his  mother,  his  Eliza,  and  has  this  moment  uttered,  in  a  voice  of  a_'ouy, 
'  Father,  Father  !  save  me — save  me  ! — ' 

"  If  these  powerful  effects  follow  the  dread  of  a  detection  of  forgery,  a  common  rea- 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  173 

•oner  would  say,  there  is  but  poor  hope  that  we  shall  compel  him  to  murder.  That 
very  dread,  however,  is  the  basis  of  my  hope — I'll  keep  him  the  whole  of  to-morrow 
in  my  own  room,  so  that  the  chamber  is  ready  for  your  reception. — The  light  of  to- 
morrow's sun  will  show  mo  my  Zelotti.  Remember  your  part,  and  I  will  devote  the 
whole  of  this  night  to  the  study  of  mine.  Yours,  EUNOB." 

Whilst,  with  a  fiend-like  industry,  Milwood  thus  spread  new  toils 
for  the  unsuspecting  victim  of  her  infernal  machinations,  he,  in  bro- 
ken slumbers,  felt  all  the  horrors  of  his  situation  ;  and,  when  the 
light  of  morning  dispelled  his  dreams,  the  reality  of  his  fate  was  to 
his  exquisitely  feeling  heart  intolerable. 

In  the  meanwhile  Mental  passed  his  hours  most  unpleasantly. 
His  situation  became  torture.  He  was  placed  under  the  same  roof 
with  his  own,  his  only  child  ;  but  every  opportunity  of  converse 
which  he  snatched,  all  the  observations  he  could  form,  tended  to 
confirm  him  more  and  more  in  the  opinion,  that  this  child  was  lost 
to  virtue  forever !  Despairing,  therefore,  for  the  success  of  any 
attempts  towards  her  reformation,  he  that  morning  resolved  to  re-i 
move  from  the  cottage,  without  making  himself  known. 

Ignorant  of  those  important  events,  which  had  taken  place  at  Mr. 
Emery's,  he  began  to  murmur  at  the  absence  of  Barnwell,  and 
hinted  his  intention  of  inquiring  for  him  at  Mr.  Emery's  if  he  did 
not  call  in  the  course  of  that  morning.  This  step  Milwood  deter- 
mined to  prevent. About  noon  Zelotti  arrived.  Mental  was  in 

the  parlour  when  he  entered,  and  Milwood  introduced  them  to  each 
other. 

The  person  and  manners  of  this  Italian  were  extremely  prepos- 
sessing, and  in  a  very  few  minutes  he  found  means  to  entangle 
Mental  in  a  conversation,  in  spite  of  the  general  taciturnity  of  the 
latter.  Mental  was,  perhaps,  in  some  degree  induced  to  this  con- 
versation by  the  curiosity  he  felt  concerning  Zelotti ;  but  the  Italian 
was  too  wary  to  allow  the  least  possible  clue  to  his  real  character  to 
escape  him.  Mental  perceived,  however,  that  Zelotti  was  no  com- 
mon man. 

The  first  employment  of  Zelotti,  after  a  consultation  with  Mil- 
wood,  was  to  assume  the  disguise  of  a  fisherman,  and  reconnoitre 
Mr.  Emery's  late  residence.  He  was  admitted  to  the  presence  of 
the  almost  distracted  uncle  of  Barnwell.  His  olive  complexion 
helped  his  disguise,  and  he  spoke  English*  very  well. 

"  1  believe  I  am  right,"  said  the  impostor  ;  "  you  are  the  master, 
as  I  take  it,  of  one  George  Barnwell." 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Sir  James,  "  I  am  his  uncle — Where  is  he? — 
Where  is  my  nephew  ?" 

"  That  is  more  than  I  must  tell.'' 

"  But  you  shall  be  compelled  to  tell." 

"  No,  sir;  I  am  poor,  and  roughly  finished;  but  I  have  never 
yet,  nor  I  never  will,  betray  my  trust." 

"  But  'tis  for  his  interest,  'tis  for  his  happiness  alone,  I  wish  to 
know.  Take  me,  then,  to  the  poor  distracted  youth,  and  he  him- 
self will  bless  you  for  it  to  the  latest  hour  of  his  life." 

"  It  must  not  be — I  have  sworn  an  oath,  your  honour,  a  sacred, 


174  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

solemn  oath,  that  I  would  not  utter  a  word  that  might  lead  to  his 
discovery." 

"  What  is  the  purpose  of  your  errand,  then  ?" 
"  This,  your  honour — to  say,  that  he  will  either  come  home  to- 
night, or  else  that  he  will  write  a  letter ;  but,  being  much  afraid 
his  absence  might  be  blazed  abroad,  he  wanted  much  to  be  assured 
that  his  mother  nor  his  uncle  were  apprized  of  it." 

"  His  mother  and  sister  are  yet  ignorant  of  it ;  and,  if  he  would 
return  immediately,  they  might  never  know  it.  I  have  letters  to 
deliver  from  them  ;  but,  being  ignorant  of  their  contents,  I  know 
not  how  they  might  affect  him." 

"  I'll  answer  for  it,  they  will  be  the  means  of  hastening  his  re- 
turn ;  besides,  your  honour,  if  you  were  to  send  them,  and  some 
kind  message  from  yourself,  I'd  back  it  to  the  best  of  my  power. 
Whilst  he  is  at  my  hut  no  harm  shall  come  to  him  ;  and  either  I, 
Or  Margery,  my  dame,  have  always  our  eyes  upon  him.  When 
he  leaves  us,  I'll  see,  too,  that  he  goes  no  where  but  to  this  house." 

"  Will  you  promise  to  do  this — will  you,  on  your  oath,  promise 
to  do  this?"  said  the  knight. — "  And  do  you  really  think  he  will 
come  to-night?" 

"  I  do,  I  do,"  cried  Zelotti. 

"  Then,  here,  honest  fellow,  take  him  these  two  letters  from  his 
mother  and  sister,  and  tell  him,  if  all  I  possess  can  render  him  hap- 
py, it  is  his  own.  Tell  him,  that  if  he  will  return  to  me  this  night, 
all  that  has  passed  shall  be  kept  secret  forever  ;  tell  him,  in  short, 
good  man,  whatever  you  think  can  induce  him  to  return  ;  and,  de- 
pend on  it,  your  reward  shall  not  be  small."  (Sir  James  was  un- 
tying his  purse.) 

"  Put  up  your  purse,  your  honour,"  cried  Zelotti ;  "  the  pleasure 
of  carrying  such  a  kind  message  to  heal  his  poor  broken  heart  is 
reward  enough  to  Ned  Martin." 

He  retired. — Sir  James's  heart  was  lightened  considerably  by 
the  hope  which  this  impostor  occasioned,  and  he  wrote  to  his  sister- 
in-law,  and  his  niece,  to  apprize  them  of  the  change  in  his  old 
friend  Mr.  Freeman's  affairs,  and  slightly  mentioned  that  his 
nephew  was  well ;  but  much  employed,  in  consequence  of  the  un- 
fortunate alteration  in  the  circumstances  of  his  friends. 


CHAPTER    XL1II. 

I  was  contriving  how  to  make  you  happy. 

Think  you  to  merit  by  your  idle  sighs, 

And  not  attest  your  love  by  one  brave  action  ? — 

TRE  DISTBESSED  MOTHER. 

UPON  the  return  of  Zelotti,  conference  was  held  between  that 
subtle  Italian  and  Milwood,  the  result  of  which  was  the  following 
conduct : 


GEORGE      BARNWKLL.  175 

"  Bamwell  had  made  her  chamber  his  prison.  It  was  nearly  dark 
when  Milwood,  confusion  and  dismay  pictured  in  her  countenance, 
rushed  into  the  apartment,  and  locked  the  door. 

"  Barnwell !"  exclaimed  she,  "  Bamwell !  arouse  yourself,  or 
we  are  lost  forever?" 

The  unhappy  Barnwell,  almost  stupified  with  sorrow,  sat  on  a 
chair,  his  legs  placed  on  a  window-seat,  reclining  his  head  on  his 
hand,  like  one  inanimate. — He  noticed  nothing  that  she  said.  She 
approached  him,  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  gazed  full  in  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  Milwood  !  that  face — those  eyes — were  they  designed  by 
nature  to  accomplish  such  wide  ruin?  Poor  Eliza!  poor  mother!" 

There  was  such  a  settled  wildness  in  his  eyes,  that  Milwood 
doubted,  for  a  moment,  whether  he  was  sensible.  After  some 
time,  a  deep  sigh  was  followed  by  a  flood  of  tears,  which  seemed 
greatly  to  relieve  him. 

"  Come,  come  ;  for  shame,"  said  she,  "  conquer  these  unmanly 
vapours  ;  summon  the  energy  of  your  mind  ;  it  is  now,  Barnwell, 
you  need  it.  This  weak,  puerile,  dejection,  is  ruinous  and  dis- 
graceful. Arouse,  Barnwell,  arouse  ! — think  what  you  owe  to  the 
law  of  nature — your  own  defence — think  what  you  owe  the  dignity 
of  your  nature,  and  scorn  to  crawl  thus,  on  captive  knees,  beneath 
the  iron  sceptre  of  imperious  fate.  Such  base  yielding  ill  becomes 
the  man  of  mind,  of  sovereignty  of  soul — it  ill-becomes  my  Barn- 
well.  Arm  yourself,  then,  with  the  intrepidity  of  manhood,  and 
struggle  to  the  last  gasp  with  fate,  till  death  or  triumph  end  the 
strife." 

"  Alas!  what  is  there  more  to  be  achieved?  Do  not  the  swift 
feet  of  Justice  haunt  me?  Does  not  her  out-stretched  arm  hold 
over  my  devoted  head  the  sword  of  death  ?  What  have  I  then,  to 
do,  but  to  submit?" 

"  Cowardly,  grovelling  notion  !  Why,  a  poor  reptile  outcast  of 
society,  a  being  rising  scarcely  any  thing  in  intellect  above  the 
worm  we  tread  on,  a  petty  common  thief,  trembling  beneath  the 
shadow  of  his  gibbet,  could  not  concede  a  meaner,  more  humili- 
ating confession.  And  shall  Barnwell  sneak  thus  like  a  reptile  to 
his  hole,  and  die?  Oh,  whither  are  thy  feelings  fled?  Where  are 
the  powers  of  thy  memory  ?  What,  tamely  yield  yourself  to  a  fel- 
on's fate — chains,  public  infamy,  and  public  death  ?  Look  at  the 
effects  of  such  conduct  on  others — behold  the  pale,  death-like  form 
that  gave  you  life — gaze  on  her  agonies — see  how  she  rends  her 
gray  hairs,  how  she  mangles  those  breasts  that  have  nurtured  thee ! 
See,  too,  a  beauteous  sister  falling,  in  the  bloom  of  life,  a  victim  to 
'thy  disgraceful  fate ! — while  I 

"  Hold,  Milwood,  as  you  value  my  existence  ! — If  thus  you  paint 
the  horrors  that  await  me,  no  strength  of  reason,  no  suggestions  of 
moral  duty,  will  prevent  me  from  instant  suicide.  Surely  I  was 
born  for  the  accursed  purpose  of  inflicting  tortures  on  those  I  love 
— But  spare  me  the  painful  picture.  In  my  heart,  in  my  brain, 


176  6  E  0  R  Q-E     BARNWELL. 

the  impression  of  all  these  horrors  is  fixed  with  unutterable  an- 
guish ! ' ' 

"  You  feel  all  these  horrors,  you  say  ;  yet  who  can  believe  hi 
You  make  no  single  effort  to  avert  them — Insensible  to  the  dangers 
that  threaten  us,  tamely  you  indulge  a  fruitless  sorrow." 

"  Is  it  not  impossible  to  escape  those  dangers  ?" 

"  It  is  possible  not  to  endure  them." 

"  What  possible  means  of  avoiding  detection  can  you  devise, 
Mil  wood  ?  Is  not  the  forgery  discovered  ? — Is  it  not  traced  even  to 
Blackmore?" 

"Ay,  even  to  Mil  wood — but  what  then  ?  think  you  that  Mil  wood 
will  surrender  up  herself  to  galling  fetters,  to  a  public  trial ,  to  an 
ignominious  death,  while  this  friendly  steel  is  here  1"  [At  these 
words  she  exposed  the  handle  of  the  dagger,  which  she  constantly 
wore  in  her  bosom.] 

"  Mil  wood,  you  dare  not  meditate  such  mischief!"  said  Barn- 
well,  seizing  her  hand.  "  Oh,  here,  in  this  breast,  rather  plunge 
the  weapon  !  Why  should  you  bleed  for  my  crimes — why — Oh, 
my  brain  burns — I  am  giddy  with  madness  of  thought !" 

"Of  what  does  Barnwell  think  the  nature  of  his  Milwood  is 
compounded  1  Surely  he  must  think  the  fear  of  death  is  an  ingre- 
dient in  her  composition,  if  he  supposes  she  can  undergo,  with 
coward  patience,  the  solemn  mockeries  of  funereal  preparations, 
ascend  a  scaffold,  face  a  multitude,  and  bear  the  tortures  of  super- 
stitious rites  and  ceremonies,  merely  for  a  little  longer  life.  No, 
since  we  must  die,  let  us,  like  Romans,  meet  the  blow,  rather  than 
wait  the  lingering  stroke  of  systematic  murder." 

"  You  speak  as  if  we  were  already  apprehended,  and  even  sen- 
tenced." 

"  And  is  it  not  so?  Do  you  imagine  that  in  our  present  condi- 
tfon,  there  is  a  possibility  of  our  escape?  Have  I — have  you — ten 
pounds  in  your  possession  ?  Will  the  billows  of  the  ocean  bear  us 
on  their  naked  waves  to  shores  of  safety  ?  Will  the  owner  of  any 
vessel  shelter  poor  and  pennyless  fugitives !  Folly's  own  sons 
would  spurn  so  poor  a  hope.  To-morrow,  in  all  human  probability, 
if  we  resolve  to  live,  a  prison  will  be  our  dwelling.  Then,  the 
very  means  of  freeing  our  spirits  from  their  bondage  will  be  taken 
from  our  hands,  and  we  shall  curse  the  torpor  of  soul,  that  let  this 
precious  moment  pass.  Come,  man,  be  bold,  and  let  a  woman's 
courage  give  you  strength — This  draught"  (presenting  a  phial) 
"  will  give  your  troubled  soul,  my  Barnwell,  an  everlasting  calm." 

Barnwell  shuddered  with  horror  ;  his  whole  mass  of  blood  seemed 
in  a  moment  congealed  ;  the  coldness  of  death  seized  his  limbs,  and 
the  features  of  his  face  were  worked  up  to  phrensy . 

"  Thou  a  woman !"  exclaimed  he,  "  a  woman  !  No — no — no— 
thou  art  some  spirit  of  the  grand  enemy  of  mankind,  permitted  to 
assume  this  lovely  form  to  blast  the  peace  of  families,  to  sever  the 
hearts  of  mother,  sister,  son,  and  brother,  from  each  other  ;  to 
drain  the  human  heart  of  its  own  natural  affections,  and  in  their 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  177 

place  implant  a  poisonous  lust,  that  generates  a  chilling  apathy  to 
all  but  thine  accursed  self:  that  wars  with  all  that  is  good  and 
amiable  in  society,  that  stirs  rebellion  against  God  himself,  prompts 
the  despairing  soul  to  the  last  damning  act  of  sin,  and  bears  it, 
with  a  horrid  yell  of  triumph,  to  scenes  of  endless  tortures  and 
despair!" 

In  the  extreme  of  agony,  the  lost  youth  tore  his  hair,  threw  him- 
self upon  the  floor,  and  abandoned  himself  to  the  violence  of  his 
despair  ! 

Milwood,  with  the  malice  and  art  of  a  demon,  silently  contem- 
plated the  progress  of  her  operations.  She  suffered  him  to  exhaust 
the  violence  of  his  feelings,  and  sat  covering  her  face  with  her 
handkerchief.  After  some  time  Barnwell  raising  his  eyes  from  the 
floor,  beheld  her  in  tears. 

What  is  that  potent,  most  mysterious  influence,  to  which  is  given 
the  name  of  Love  T  Say,  ye,  who  aim  at  defining  all  the  influences 
and  operations  of  our  nature,  who  presume  to  have  discovered 
causes  for  all  the  actions  of  men — how  is  it,  that  a  being,  endowed 
with  more  than  the  common  powers  of  reason,  whose  heart  has 
been  fenced  with  the  lessons  of  virtue,  should,  by  the  influence  of 
this  most  powerful  passion,  be  impelled  to  the  commission  of  deeds, 
at  which,  when  that  influence  ceases  to  operate,  his  heart  recoils 
with  horror,  and  his  reason  surveys  with  astonishment? 

Barnwell  saw  her  tears  ;  they  were  like  burning  drops  upon  his 
own  heart — he  arose — he  flew  to  the  dissembler. 

"  Milwood,  Milwood  !  you  weep — you  are  wretched — and  I  have 
made  you  so !" 

"  You  have,  indeed,"  said  she.  "  Oh,  unkind — Oh,  cruel ! 
But  I  deserve  it — yes,  I  deserve  it,  Barnwell ;  but  could  I  have 
imagined  you,  of  all  men,  would  thus  heap  reproaches  upon  the 
poor  heart  over  which  you  have  triumphed?  Oh,  no — the  taunts? 
of  society,  the  scorn  of  my  own  sex,  the  derision  of  yours— these  I 
expected,  Barnwell ;  but  that  you  should  revile  me — that  you 
should — Oh  !  'tis  this  overcomes  me  !" 

She  wept,  and  her  whole  soul  seemed  melted  into  wo.  Barn- 
well,  irresolute  and  wavering  in  his  mind,  was  at  a  loss  in  what 
language  to  address  her.  She  continued — 

"  If  our  fates  have  proved  calamitous  ;  if  evil,  following  on  the 
heels  of  evil,  pursues  us,  how  am  I  to  blame?  Did  /request  that 
second  fatal  interview,  the  source  of  all  our  woes  ?  Was  I  not 
prepared  to  leave  forever  the  isle  which  you  inhabited  ?  Have  I 
received  an  interest  or  a  pleasure,  separate  from  yours,  since  that 
ill-fated  hour  ?  And  yet  I  am  arraigned  as  guilty  of  intentional 
crimes.  Oh,  youth !  lovely,  yet  unfortunate,  be  just,  even  amid 
your  sufferings.  Why  have  I  offered  the  antidote  of  death  to  the 
miseries  that  threaten  ? — because  I  knew  you  timid,  scrupulously 
hesitating  ;  when  the  only  means  of  escaping  them  are  bold,  enter- 
prising, and  uncommon  ;  such  as,  indeed,  are  above  the  use  of 
beings  educated  in  the  prejudices  and  errors  of  systems  ;  such  as  1 


173  GEORGE      BARN  WELL. 

know  you  could  never  be  brought  to  use  ;  and,  therefore,  we  must 
die!" 

"Die!"  exclaimed  Barnwell  ;  "you — you  must  die?  Oh, 
God,  forbid! — Let  us  fly— let  us  fly  this  instant,  Milwbffei  I  begin 
to  see  your  horrible  condition"  (putting  his  hand  to  his  forehead.) 
"  Merciful  Heaven! — Milwood,  why  did  you  concern  yourself  in 
the  accursed  forgery? — Oh,  forgive  my  madness,  when  I  accused 
you.  Where  is — where  is  my  friend — where  is  Townley?  I  must 
see  him,  or  it  will  be  too  late — perhaps  it  is  already  too  late  to  es- 
cape our  pursuers. — He  will  give  me  any  sum  of  money  we  may 
want — Let  me  go  to  him." 

"  Alas  !  my  Barnwell,"  cried  Milwood,  prepared  for  this  propo- 
sal, "  hope  nothing  there.  He  left  the  cottage  this  morning  early, 
as  he  said,  on  urgent  business,  and  will  not  return  till  to-morrow  : 
by  that  period  our  fate  will  be  decided." 

"  Our  fate,  Milwood !  No,  no,  you  must  not  suffer.  On  me — 
on  me,  just  Heaven,  pour  thy  vengeance  !  But  has  not  my  friend 
left  his  casket '? — I  know  its  value — I  know  your  right  to  it." 

"  You  talk  wildly,  my  Barnwell  !  But  even  had  we  the  right 
you  speak  of,  we  have  not  the  power ;  the  casket  is  not  here." 

"  Did  he  not  say  whither  he  was  gone?" 

"No." 

"  Did  he  ever  converse  with  you  on  any  subjects  besides  com- 
mon ones  ?  Did  he  ever  make  any  discovery,  or  throw  out  any 
hints?" 

"  No — no — none — but  let  us  not  now  waste  time  in  words,  when 
every  moment  that  escapes  us  brings  the  crisis  of  our  fate  still 
nearer." 

"  You  are  calm,  Milwood ! — Ah!  then,  I  know  your  resolution 
— Give  me  that  dagger." 

"  No,  Barnwell ;  'tis  the  last  wreck  of  hope  that's  left  to  cling 
to." 

The  distracted  youth  now  raved  again — all  the  endearments  of 
the  siren,  all  the  high  wrought  picturing^  of  memory,  burst  at  once 
on  his  imagination.  She  was  every  thing  to  him,  in  this  moment 
of  transportation  from  himself.  All  other  existence  was  to  him  as 
though  it  existed  not ;  and  to  contemplate  the  destruction  of  this 
idol  of  his  soul,  or  rather  the  extinction  of  this  essence  of  his  own 
existence,  was  beyond  the  efforts  of  his  reason.  He  sunk  sense- 
less on  her  bosom. 

"  Oh,  were  there  any  means,  however  desperate,  however  dan- 
gerous, by  which  I  might  save  you,  Milwood !"  said  he,  after  some 
time. 

"  There  is  a  way,  Barnwell ;  but  it  is  a  track  unmarked  by  vul- 
gar footsteps  :  the  great  of  soul  alone  walk  in  this  path — the  vota- 
ries of  ambition,  of  revenge,  and  all  the  higher,  nobler  propensities 
of  our  nature.  Men  of  low  and  grovelling  impulses  tremble  at  its 
entrance,  and  turn  aside,  seeking  each  little  petty  avenue  of  cow- 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  179 

ardly  escape,  while  those  of  higher  daring  boldly  tread  the  paths 
of  blood!" 

"  Go  on,"  cried  Barnwell :  "  I  understand  you." 

"  If  he  who  holds  the  fatal  paper,  which  is  to  witness  against 
us  to  our  death — if  he  and  you,  Barnwell,  were  in  some  retired 
spot,  far  from  the  prying  eye  of  mortals— how  would  you  act?" 

"  Milwood,  there  is  a  desperate  meaning  in  your  words — Know 
you  who  holds  the  bill?" 

"I  do." 

"Is  he  some  villain — some  usurious  shark,  that  has  long  preyed 
upon  the  distresses  of  his  fellow-creatures  ? — Say,  is  he  a  father  or 
a  husband?  Would  his  death — Oh,  whither  am  I  wandering?" 

"  In  the  road  to  safety — to  future  years  of  peace  and  joy — had 
you  but  the  courage  of  a  man.  You  have  discovered,  Barnwell, 
the  only  avenue  of  escape  from  death.  Think  on't,  man — Does  not 
the  law  of  nature  loudly  call  on  you  to  act?  If,  in  the  highway, 
another  meet  you  with  some  deadly  weapon,  and  threaten  your  de- 
struction, what  is  the  impulse  nature  gives?  Here  is  but  trifling 
difference — An  instrument  of  death — no  matter  what — is  in  the 
hands  of  one  who  threatens  you,  and  in  you,  all  who  love  you, 
with  destruction!  If,  then,  by  a  blow  that  nature  prompts,  you 
can  disarm  your  foe — Barnwell,  do  you  understand  me  ?" 

He  had  fixed  his  eyes,  which  had  a  death-like  glassy  appearance, 
firmly  on  Milwood ;  his  hands  were  clenched  tightly  together,  and 
rested  on  his  knees. 

"Milwood,"  said  he,  continuing  in  the  same  posture,  "Mil- 
wood,  I  have  taken  a  desperate  resolve ! — Who  had  dared  have 
told  me,  a  few  manths  ago,  that  I  should  prove  a  murderer!  But 
I  shall — ay,  you  shall  live,  Milwood,  in  mirth  and  jollity ;  After 
these  hands  have  done  the  bloody  deed,  will  we  not  be  merry? 
Nay,  you  look  grave,  my  love  !" 

This  was  not  the  precise  disposition  to  which  she  had  aimed  to 
bring  him.  There  was  a  wildness  in  his  manner,  bordering  so 
nearly  on  insanity,  that  she  trembled  with  the  apprehension,  that 
he  might  betray  their  purpose. 

"This  is  the  rant  of  madness,"  cried  she ;  "not  the  decision  of 
courage." 

"  By  Heaven,  I'll  do  it !  I  have  dismissed  that  troublesome  guest 
that  has  hitherto  daunted  my  courage — it  is  fled — fled  forever.  I 
have  now  no  conscience  but  thy  voice,  my  love.  Come  let  us  to 
action — Where  does  the  old  villain  dwell?" 

"  Be  more  yourself,  Barnwell — you  rave." 

"  No,  by  my  soul,  I  am  calm  !  Come,  give  me  my  victim — see, 
the  moon  rises,  and  the  hour  of  foul  deeds  draws  nigh  ." 

Milwood  paused — she  meditated — she  saw  his  soul  wound  up  to 
desperation,  and  ripe  for  the  deed  she  wished  concluded  ;  but,  ever 
wary  in  her  designs,  she  looked  beyond  the  deed,  and  saw  his  state 
of  mind  ill  calculated  for  its  concealment,  when  performed.  She 
paused  again — she  recollected,  that  there  is  a  crisis  in  mental  opera- 
8* 


180  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

tions,  and  knew,  that  if  she  suffered  the  crisis  of  desperation  to 
arrive,  without  accomplishing  her  end,  it  never  would  return.  She 
well  knew  the  state  of  languor  that  would  succeed  it,  and  with  a 
boldness  of  determination,  resolved  upon  the  risk.  When  she  had 
resolved,  she  took  his  hands,  she  kissed  them,  bathed  them  with 
tears,  and  called  him  by  the  dearest  title  of  Saviour. 

"Every  hour  of  my  future  existence  will  be  a  gift  of  thine," 
said  she ;  "  to  thee,  my  saviour,  shall  I  owe  all  the  years  of  life  I 
may  enjoy.  But,  are  you  firm,  my  hero?" 

:'  I  am  resolved." 

"  But  when  you  shall  hear  who  is  the  victim,  the  necessary  vic- 
tim, for  whom  Fate  calls — Oh,  then,  all  my  hopes  of  life  will  van- 
ish !  You  will  prefer  his  life  to  mine,  to  a  mother's,  a  sister's,  to 
your  own !" 

"  No— no — no,"  cried  he  :  "  were  my  father  living,  and  in  the 
way  'twixt  life  and  you,  I  think — yes,  I  think  I  should,  Mil- 
wood !" 

"  But  you  have  a  near  relation,  who  yet  lives,  Barnweli — you 
have  an — "  (she  held  his  hand  grasped  tightly  in  her  own)  "  an — 
an — uncle !" 

"  Is  it  my  poor  uncle,  then? — Oh!" 

He  struck  his  head  violently. — She  suffered  him  to  remain  silent 
a  few  minutes,  and  then,  in  a  most  tender  voice 

"  Barnweli,  speak  to  me — tell  me — am  I  to  die?" 

He  threw  himself  into  her  arms. 

"Live,  Milwood,  live! — though  perdition,  everlasting  perdition, 
be  the  price  of  your  existence  !" 

From  this  moment  he  was  lost.  The  situation  of  his  uncle  at 
Mr.  Emery's  was  made  known  to  him  ;  she  persuaded  him  that  the 
forged  bill  had  passed  into  his  possession  ;  that,  ignorant  who  had 
forged  it,  he  still  held  it ;  and,  if  he  lived,  must  in  spite  of  every 
wish  to  the  contrary,  be  compelled  to  appear  against  them. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

Hear  me,  you  wicked  one — 
You  have  put  bills  of  lire  within  this  breast, 
Not  to  be  quench'd  with  tears  ;  for  which  my  guilt 
Sits  on  your  bosom ! — TRAGEDY  OF  PIIILASTEB. 

SIR  JAMES  BARNWELL  had  just  finished  a  solitary  sapper,  when 
Barnweli,  attended  by  Zelotti,  rung  the  bell  at  the  gate  of  the  court 
yard.  The  pride  of  Mrs.  Emery  and  her  daughters  confined  them 
to  their  chambers ;  the  poor  Maria  was  intrusted  to  the  care  of  a 
nurse  ;  and  Mr.  Sandall  was  gone  to  visit  a  friend  at  Margate. 

The  pretended  fisherman  introduced  Barnweli  to  his  rejoicing' 
uncle,  who  fell  on  his  neck,  and  embraced  him.  Barnweli,  pale 
and  trembling^  seated  himself  silently  on  a  chair,  and  supported 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  181 

his  head  by  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table.  Zelotti,  in  a  whisper 
to  Sir  James,  observed,  that  the  less  notice  was  taken  of  him,  and 
the  earlier  they  retired,  the  better,  and  then  departed.  The  an- 
guish of  the  old  man,  as  he  looked  upon  his  nephew,  was  keen 
indeed. 

"  You  look  ill,  my  nephew  ;  you  are  fatigued.  We  will  not  en- 
ter on  the  cause  of  your  uneasiness  to-night ;  but  if  your  happiness 
can  be  restored  by  any  means  in  my  power,  assure  yourself  of  my 
best  endeavours." 

"You  are  very  good — yes,  you  are  truly  good — and  that's  one 
comfortable  reflection,"  said  Barnwell. 

Sir  James  little  suspected  the  drift  of  his  discourse. 

"  Have  you  supped  George?" 

"  I  have  not  eat  a  long  while,  sir ;  my  appetite  is  gone,  quite 
gone — but  I  can  drink — what  have  you  there,  wine  V 

The  wine  was  on  the  table  :  he  drank  a  bumper  greedily. 

"You  don't  inquire  after  your  mother  or  your  sister,  George." 

"Oh,  true!  you're  right — my  mother — ah,  my  mother — and 
Eliza — poor  girl ! — Come,  sir,  won't  you  take  some  wine?" 

Sir  James  was  alarmed  at  his  wild  manner.  Barnwell  poured 
out  another  bumper  and  swallowed  it. 

"  How  much  does  it  want  to  one  o'clock?"  said  he. 

"  'Tis  not  twelve,"  said  Sir  James. 

At  that  instant  Mr.  Sandall  entered  the  room.  Sir  James  inti- 
mated silence  to  him.  Barnwell  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  notice 
him. 

"  What  an  altered  house  is  this!"  said  Barnwell.  "  No  more 
merriment ! — Well,  I  must  to  bed — and  you,  Mr.  Sandall,  being  a 
divine,  will  pray  for  us  all — Uncle,  do  you  pray  every  night?" 

Sir  James,  who  conceived  his  brain  injured,  humoured  him,  and 
answered  him — "  Always,  George." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  he  ;  "  you  are  a  righteous  man,  and 
your  prayers  are  heard." 

He  rung  for  the  servant.  At  the  door  he  turned  round,  and 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  for  some  time  on  his  uncle,  then  retired, 
saying,  as  he  left  the  room,  "  God  bless  you,  sir — good  night." 

When  the  man  had  attended  him  to  his  chamber  door,  which 

was  one,  among  several,  in  a  long  gallery "  There  poor  Miss 

Freeman  sleeps — does  she  not,  Sam?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  in  that  room,  I  suppose,  my  uncle  sleeps." 

"  No,  sir,  the  other  gentleman  has  that  room — Sir  James  lies  in 
this  here,  next  to  yours." 

"  Does  that  clock,  that  stands  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  strike  the 
hours,  Sam?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  the  lamps  at  each  end  of  the  gallery  burn  all  night?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  till  near  daylight." 

"Goodnight,  Sam." 


183  GEORGE     BARNWELI,, 

He  retired  to  his  chamber.  The  clock  struck  twelve.  "  One 
hour  mo  re!  "'exclaimed  he.  Ho  paced  about  the  chamber  in  agony 
of  thought.  "Hush  !''  murmured  he  to  himself;  "I  hear  his  aged 
footsteps — he  passes  my  door — he  enters  his  chamber.  Will  he 
lock  the  door  ? — no — he  dreads  the  danger  of  fire,  and  rather  trusts 
to  man's  mercy  than  a  senseless  element !  Hark !  he  prays — Good 
God  !  he  prays  for  me — even  me !  Listen  ! — !  Restore  his  peace  of 
mind.'  Oh,  poor  martyr  !  that's  a  vain  petition — Alas,  Milwood ! 
what  have  I  sworn  to  do  T — But  you  cannot  both  live?  Why,  oh, 
why  was  I  permitted  to  see  this  hour? — Hark  !  the  bed  creaks — he 
lays  his  aged  limbs  to  rest — never,  never  more  to  rise  !" 

All  was  now  perfect  silence  in  the  house,  so  that  the  dashing  of 
the  ocean's  waves  were  heard  distinctly,  the  windows  of  that  range 
of  chambers  overlooking  the  sea.  When  he  parted  from  Milwood, 
she  had  furnished  him  with  a  dagger,  and  gave  him  a  small  packet, 
with  an  injunction  not  to  open  it  till  the  bell  tolled  one.  This  dag- 
ger he  now  drew  from  his  bosom,  and  placed  it,  with  the  packet, 
on  the  tabre. 

His  reflections  now  grew  more  and  more  tormenting ;  his  reso- 
lution was  a  hundred  times  shaken,  and  raised  again  by  the  mem- 
ory of  Milwood.  When  the  idea  of  her  public  death  rushed  across 
his  brain,  madness  nerved  his  arm,  and  he  often  grasped  the  dag- 
ger in  a  state  of  phrensy. 

In  this  horrible  conflict  the  hour  passed  away  ;  the  clock  in  the 
gallery  struck  one.  A  chilly  sweat  dewed  his  whole  frame — his 
blood  shot  like  a  bolt  of  ice  to  his  heart.  With  a  trembling  hand 
he  opened  the  packet ;  it  contained  a  most  animating  likeness  of 
Milwood,  in  miniature,  and  fully  answered  the  purpose  she  intended. 
A  small  scroll  of  paper  contained,  in  her  own  hand-writing,  these 
words  : — "  If  another  hour  elapses,  and  the  deed  is  not  performed, 
you  may  gaze  on  the  resemblance  of  Milwood,  but  will  never  be- 
hold the  original  alive."  He  gazed  on  the  portrait;  he  read  the 
scroll  again ;  again  he  contemplated  the  miniature — he  kissed  it 
with  fervour — his  brain  grew  inflamed — imagination  rioted — He 
kissed  the  miniature  again — he  placed  it  in  his  bosom,  grasped  the 
dagger,  and,  throwing  off  his  slippers,  opened  his  chamber  door. 
Not  a  breath  moved  along  the  gallery — he  stood  trembling  for  a 
few  moments,  fearfully  gazing  around  him — his  shadow  on  the  floor 
startled  him — he  shuddered .  Once  more  he  drew  the  portrait  from 
his  bosom,  and  looked  on  it  by  the  light  reflected  from  the  lamp. 
Summoning  a  desperate  effort,  he  made  two  or  three  strides,  and 
found  himself  in  his  uncle's  chamber.  He  closed  the  door  after 
him,  and  approached  the  bed-side.  A  chamber  lamp  burned  in  the 
fire  place  :  by  this  light,  as  he  leaned  against  the  feet  of  the  bed, 
he  perceived  his  uncle  slept.  At  that  moment  he  fancied,  that  he 
heard  a  footstep  in  the  gallery — he  listened,  and  was  confirmed  it 
was  so.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  door  in  horrid  dread  of  a  de- 
tection, and  half  concealed  the  dagger  in  his  bosom,  still  holding 
the  candle.  No  one  entered — all  was  again  silent.  Once  more  he 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  183 

slowly  drew  the  dagger  forth,  and  once  more  turned  his  eyes  upon 
his  sleeping  uncle.  The  dim,  faint  light,  emitted  from  the  lamp, 
just  served  to  discover  his  tranquil  features.  His  lips  were  closed 
in  a  smile,  that  indicated  peaceful  slumbers.  As  he  contemplated 
this  scene,  a  deep  groan  pierced  the  ears  of  Barnwell :  frozen  with 
horror,  he  dared  not  to  turn  his  head  towards  the  gallery,  whence 
it  seemed  to  issue,  but  remained  fixed  as  a  statue.  In  another  mo- 
ment a  voice,  softly,  but  distinctly,  uttered — "  I'll  sit  all  night  on 
his  cold,  cold  grave  !"  He  fancied  it  was  the  voice  of  his  sister. 
The  dagger  fell  from  his  senseless  hand,  and  he  clung  to  the  pillars 
of  the  bedstead  for  support.  Waked  by  the  noise  and  motion,  his 
uncle  started  up.  Barnwell,  instigated  by  a  sudden  impulse,  in 
which  fear  was  an  ingredient,  snatched  up  the  dagger,  spiung 
upon  the  breast  of  the  venerable  old  man,  and  plunged  its  fatal 
point  deep  iu  his  heart!  One  groan  only  preceded  his  dissolution! 

The  moment  the  fatal  blow  was  struck,  remorse  was  kindled, 
with  all  its  horrors,  in  the  breast  of  Barnwell ;  a  remorse  too  pow- 
erful for  words  or  action  ;  it  was  a  consuming  fire  kindled  in  the 
centre  of  his  heart.  In  a  few  moments  the  same  voice  he  had  heard 
before  exclaimed — "In  heaven  he  will  be  mine,  for  Milwood  cannot 
come  to  heaven."  Roused  to  madness,  he  rushed  like  lightning  to 
the  door,  opened  it  without  regard  to  the  noise  he  made,  and  be- 
held, sitting  in  her  night  gown  at  his  own  room  door,  Maria  Free- 
man. This  amiable  and  afflicted  girl,  still  the  victim  of  concealed 
affection,  grew  hourly  worse.  Her  mind,  constantly  fixed  on  the 
object  of  her  love,  was  now  impressed  with  the  notion  of  his  death, 
and  her  attendant  having  fallen  asleep,  the  lovely  maniac  had  left 
her  bed  under  the  impression  of  visiting  his  tomb.  The  noise  and 
his  appearance  caused  her  to  utter  the  most  violent  shrieks,  which 
brought  Mr.  Sandall  and  the  servants  to  be  witnesses  to  a  scene  of 
the  utmost  horror!  Barnwell,  taking  the  advantage  of  their  con- 
fusion, burst  through  them  all,  and  fled,  with  incredible  speed,  to- 
wards the  cottage. 

Urged  on  by  an  instinctive  sense  of  danger,  scarcely  knowing 
the  route  he  took,  and  without  bestowing  a  thought  on  the  certain 
consequences  of  his  sudden  flight,  he  pursued  his  way.  Each  step 
he  took  he  trembled ;  even  the  falling  leaf,  that  floated  in  the  air, 
alarmed  him.  As  he  approached  the  sea,  the  roaring  of  the  water 
appalled  his  guilty  soul  with  terror.  If,  for  a  minute,  he  raised  his 
eyes  from  the  ground,  the  most  horrid  images  floated  before  them. 
His  uncle's  mangled,  bleeding  corpse,  his  father's  angry  ghost,  the 
very  torments  of  the  damned,  racked  his  imagination  !  The  gloomy 
aspect  of  the  heavens  aided  the  force  of  these  guilt-born  terrors,  and 
rendered  his  situation  horrible  beyond  expression  ! 

With  difficulty  he  at  length  found  the  wicker  gate  of  the  cot- 
tage— it  was  locked,  nor  could  all  the  noise  he  was  capable  of 
making,  gain  him  admission.  Dreading  to  remain  unhoused,  he 
endeavoured  to  explore  an  entrance  at  the  back  of  the  garden,  by 
climbing  up  to  the  arbour  from  the  sands.  The  tide  was  flowing 


184  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

rapidly  in,  and  he  found  he  had  no  time  to  lose.  By  perseverance, 
spurred  on  by  the  desperation  of  his  mind,  he  gained,  at  length,  a 
footing  on  a  part  of  the  cliff  that  overhung  the  sea,  and  was  within 
a  few  paces  of  the  arbour. 

Exhausted  with  fatigue,  and  overpowered  by  the  conflicting  ex- 
ercises of  his  mind,  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  rock,  with  a 
groan  of  agony.  The  fever  of  the  soul  became  exchanged  for  a 
most  awful  languor — he  dared  not  to  think.  The  roaring  of  the 
waters  underneath  at  length  aroused  him,  and  the  horrors  of  his 
situation  flashed  once  more  across  his  imagination. 

At  that  moment,  rising  from  the  ground,  he  felt  strongly  im- 
pelled to  plunge  from  the  precipice,  on  which  he  stood,  into  the 
gulf  of  waters  ;  but,  almost  at  the  same  instant,  the  murmuring  of 
approaching  whispers  startled  him,  and  arrested  his  attention.  It 
was  too  dark  to  discern  their  faces  ;  but  he  could  distinguish  a 
man  and  woman  plainly,  as  the  former  carried  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 
They  approached  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  appeared  to  make  to- 
wards the  spot  where  he  stood.  A  little  to  the  right  there  was  a 
spot,  where  the  chalk  had  fallen  away  some  feet  in  depth,  and  left 
a  hollow  space.  Here  he  crept  and  concealed  himself.  In  a  few 
moments  they  were  close  to  the  place  of  his  concealment — A  voice, 
which  he  too  well  knew,  now  struck  his  ear — 'twas  Milwood's. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  how  is  the  tide?" 

"  Coming  in,"  said  the  man,  who  was  Zelotti ;  "but  it  won't 
do  this  tide  ;  it  will  be  break  of  day  ere  there  be  sufficient  depth  of 
water." 

"Cursed  delay!"  cried  Milwood  ;  "what  must  be  done  with 
the  body,  then?" 

"  Let  it  remain  in  the  sack,  under  the  seat,  in  the  arbour,  till 
another  night." 

"  That  might  do,  if  we  were  certain  of  remaining  here;  but  I 
dread  the  morning,  Zelotti.  Fool  that  I  was,  to  trust  a  work  of 
such  a  nature  to  his  hands.  If  Barnwell  should  be  detected  in  the 
act,  or  by  his  weakness  discover  it  when  done,  we  must  fly  in- 
stantly, and  then  old  Townley's  corpse  would  be  discovered,  and 
his  murder  clearly  traced  to  me." — (How  poor  Barnwell  shudder- 
ed !) 

"  That's  true,"  replied  Zelotti.  "  Let  me  consider  :  as  there 
are  no  marks  of  violence  upon  his  person,  suppose  we  strip  him  ; 
the  effects  of  the  poison  in  swelling  the  body,  may  pass  well  enough 
for  the  same  effects  produced  by  drowning  ;  so  that  if  it  floats,  and 
is  discovered  in  the  morning,  there  would  be  no  ground  of  suspi- 
cion." 

"  Quick,  then,  about  it!"  cried  Milwood  ;  "  there  has  been  too 
much  delay. — O,  Zelotti !  if  Barnwell's  heart  were  but  moulded 
like  our  own,  what  a  glorious  harvest  should  we  reap! — But  my 
soul  misgives  me — I  fear  his  tenderness,  his  foolish  remorse — 
Would  this  night  were  well  over  !" 

They  had  now  retired  out  of  the  hearing  of  Barnwell.     He  had, 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  185 

however,  heard  enough  to  petrify  his  soul  with  horror. — It  was 
plain  that  Milwood  had  poisoned  her  father  ! — Language  is  not 
equal  to  the  task  of  describing  what  now  passed  in  his  agonized 
bosom : — Dreading  to  meet  them,  he  was  compelled  to  keep  his  sit- 
uation. Sooner  than  he  imagined,  they  returned,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  awful  sound  smote  his  ear  of  the  fall  of  poor  Mental's 
corpse  into  its  grave  of  billows  ! — He  could  not  check  a  deep  groan 
at  that  instant. 

"  Did  you  hear  any  thing?"  said  Zelotti. 

"No,"  said  Milwood;  "you  are  not  surely  turning  supersti- 
tious!" 

"  I  am  sure  I  heard  a  groan,"  said  Zelotti. 

"  Fancy — fancy,  man,"  cried  she — "  Come,  we  have  work  to  do 
— Peace  to  old  Townley — now  for  his  treasures." 

They  bent  their  way  towards  the  arbour.  Barnwell  followed 
them  with  his  eye.  In  their  hurry  they  forgot  the  ladder  by  which 
they  descended  from  the  window  of  the  arbour.  He  noticed  this 
neglect,  and,  waiting  a  considerable  time,  his  first  impulse  was  to 
ascend  the  ladder  ;  but  he  checked  it,  and  continued  wandering 
near  the  spot  till  break  of  day. 

The  tortures  inflicted  by  his  conscience  became  almost  insup- 
portable, and  he  once  again  resolved  to  die. 

At  the  very  moment,  however,  of  acting  upon  this  dreadful  reso- 
lution,  an  indescribable  terror  seized  him,  and  turned  him  from  his 
purpose.  The  conviction  of  a  future  state  was  so  deeply  impressed 
upon  his  mind,  that,  though  surrounded  by  misery,  he  dared  not  to 
plunge,  uncalled,  into  eternity.  Again,  when  the  horrible  conse- 
quences of  his  crime  rushed  in  force  upon  his  imagination,  he  felt 
almost  irresistibly  impelled  to  escape  them  by  the  only  means  left 
— the  guilt  of  suicide ! 

Thus  wretchedly  passed  the  hours  of  darkness :  now  the  tor- 
ments of  his  situation  drove  him  almost  to  self-murder  ;  and  now 
the  dread  of  what  another  world  might  prove,  deterred  him  from 
the  crime.  Nor  was  the  recent  scene  he  had  witnessed  the  least 
part  of  his  present  wretchedness— sorrow  for  the  fate  of  Mental,  at 
any  common  period,  would  have  powerfully  afflicted  him  ;  but  when 
the  incontrovertible  evidence  of  his  own  sight  and  hearing  proved 
to  him  the  real  character  of  Milwood,  surprise,  agony,  and  despair, 
took  possession  of  his  soul. 

Such  was  the  the  state  of  mind  in  which,  early  in  the  morning, 
Milwood  and  Zelotti  discovered  the  poor  lost  Barnwell.  Anxiety 
respecting  the  body  of  the  murdered  Mental  brought  them  to  ob- 
serve if  the  tide  had  thrown  it  on  the  shore.  When  Milwood  first 
saw  Barnwell,  he  was  kneeling,  his  hands  clasped,  and  his  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  rising  sun. 

"Amazement!"  exclaimed  she.  "Barnwell!  Barnwell! — 
Tell  me,  do  my  senses  deceive  me?" 

Barnwell  surveyed  her  with  a  wild,  inquiring  gaze,  but  spoke 
not. 


186  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

"  Answer  me,"  said  she,  "  does  he  live?" 

"In  heaven!"  said  Barnwell,  shaking  his  head,  and  showing 
some  blood  upon  his  hands. 

"Why  then  are  you  here?"  said  she;  "you  should  have  re- 
mained in  your  chamber,  as  I  directed  you,  to  avoid  suspicion. — 
Where  is  the  dagger? — where  is  the  miniature  ?" 

"  By  his  bleeding  corpse  !"  said  Barnwell,  solemnly. 

"  Fool !— madman  ! — Did  you  intend  detection  T — My  portrait 
left  in  the  room!— perhaps  my  letter  too. — Zelotti,  we  must  fly — 
this  instant  we  must  fly  ! — Away — away  ! — and  leave  this  whimper- 
ing boy  to  the  fate  his  folly  merits." 

She  cast  a  look  of  contemptuous  rage  on  him,  and  walked  swiftly 
towards  the  arbour,  followed  by  Zelotti. 

Barnwell,  roused  from  his  stupor  of  misery  by  this  conduct,  pur- 
sued them,  exclaiming,  as  he  went — "  Milwood — Milwood — hear 
me  !"  At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  he  seized  her  hand  eagerly — "  Lost 
— lost  woman  ! — Why  am  I  still  anxious  concerning  vou  ? — Why, 
even  after  you  have  driven  me  to  perdition,  do  I  still  love  you? — 
Why  is  it,  that,  though  I  know  you  a  murderer,  I  cannot — cannot 
detest  you? — O,  then,  listen  to  me,  Milwood  ;  and,  instead  of  at- 
tempting to  escape  the  just  punishment  of  our  crimes,  let  us  sur- 
render ourselves  to  death,  as  the  only  atonement  in  our  power,  and 
devote  the  few  hours  we  may  live  in  preparing'  for  eternity  !" 

"Canting  babe— preaching  infant ;"  cried  Milwood,  scornfully. 
"  Know,  fool,  that  she,  to  whom  you  preach,  is  of  a  nature  above 
indulging  such  dreams,  as  haunt  children  of  prejudice,  and  dupes 
of  priestcraft,  like  yourself.  She  scon's  your  counsel,  and  despises 
you  for  offering  it.  To  you,  and  such  as  yon,  she  leaves  it  to  bend 
the  neck  submissively  to  laws  and  ordinances.  Her  life  is  her  all ; 
she  dreams  of  no  future  worlds,  nor  dreads  accounts  hereafter.  On 
such,  the  puny  fears  of  others,  she  builds  her  towering  projects, 
and  would  not  scruple,  if  she  had  the  power,  to  hurl  yon  blazing 
orb  of  liffht  from  its  fixed  centre  to  destroy  whole  systems  that 
opposed  her  purpose." 

"  Can  human  nature  fall  so  low?7'  cried  Barnwell ;  "can  that 
which  we  are  taught  to  believe  emanates  from  Deity  itself  become 
infernal  ?" 

"  Who  is  this  Deity  you  speak  of? — Where  is  his  power?— If 
he  exists,  why  did  he  suffer  you,  a  villain,  maddened  by  lust,  to 
murder  sleeping  innocence? — Fool !— fool ! — fool! — Away,  Ze- 
lotti." 

"  Yet,  one  moment,  hold,"  cried  Barnwell.  "  Where  is  my 
friend— where  is  Townley  ?  Oh,  what  must  be  your  agony,  Mil- 
wood,  when  you  hear,  that  Townley,  he  whose  murdered  corpse, 
last  night,  you  yielded  to  the  deep,  was your  father?" 

"  Already  is  the  mighty  secret  known  !"  said  she.  "  I  know 
he  was  my  father — I  own,  too.  that  these  hands  mixed  and  admin- 
istered the  dose  that  poisoned  him ! — Where  was  the  Deity  you 
talk  of  then  ? — Why  did  not  his  power,  if  he  possesses  it,  prevent 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  187 

so  foul  a  deed  ?  I  knew  not,  at  the  moment,  that  he  was  my  father- : 
the  contents  of  his  casket,  and  his  papers  told  me,  that  he  had 
played  a  character  that  he  was  not  in  reality,  and  he  has  fallen  in 
consequence. — Tis  possible  he  might  have  lived,  but  for  his  decep- 
tion." 

Barn  well  was  petrified  with  horror  and  astonishment ! 

"  In  a  few  hours,"  continued  Milwood,  as  she  ascended  the  lad- 
der, "  some  dungeon  may  immerse  us,  if  we  remain,  Zelotti.— 
Come,  then,  nor  let  us  waste  the  present  opportunity." 

As  she  uttered  the  last  words,  she  entered  the  arbour  by  the 
window.  In  the  same  instant  she  shrieked  violently,  and  three 
men  rushed  down  the  ladder,  from  the  window,  and  secured  Barn- 
well  and  Zelotti.  The  ravings  of  Milwood  were  too  horrible  to 
describe.  During  their  absence  from  the  cottage,  Mr.  Sandall,  at- 
tended by  several  of  the  domestics,  and  conducted  by  the  informa- 
tion found  in  Barnwell's  papers,  had  arrived  there,  and  forced  the 
outer  gates.  As  the  garden  door  was  open,  they  had  just  entered 
the  arbour,  when  the  voice  of  Barnwell  arrested  their  attention  ; 
and  concluding,  from  the  replies  of  Milwood,  that  she  was  return- 
ing, they  stationed  themselves  in  such  a  manner  as  to  secure  her 
when  she  entered.  The  criminals  were  immediately  conveyed  be- 
fore a  magistrate,  and  committed  to  prison.  Milwood  continued  to 
rave.  Zelotti  loaded  her  with  reproaches  ;  but  Barnwell  silently 
hung  down  his  head,  and  endeavoured  to  conceal  the  tears,  that 
bedewed  his  pallid  cheeks. 


CHA  PTER    XLV. 

Think  timely,  think,  on  the  last  dreadful  day, 
How  you  will  tremble  there  to  stand  exposed 
The  foremost  in  the  rank  of  guilty  gho&g, 
That  must  be  doom'd  for  murder ! — DBYDEN. 

NIGHT  approached — Milwood,  who,  during  the  whole  day,  had 
sought,  in  vain,  an  opportunity  of  self-destruction,  at  length,  over- 
come by  the  violent  exertions  of  despair,  sunk  on  her  pillow,  and 
slept.  Two  women,  who  were  appointed  to  watch  in  her  apart- 
ments, soon  after  midnight,  were  aroused  by  the  violent  shrieks 
which  she  uttered  in  her  sleep.  Pierced  to  the  heart  by  her  excla- 
mations, which  seemed  to  indicate  the  most  excruciating  tortures 
of  her  mind,  they  were  yet  too  superstitious  to  awaken  her.  Seve- 
ral inhabitants  of  the  prison,  alarmed  by  her  dreadful  cries,  entered 
the  apartment,  and  stood  trembling  around  the  bed  of  the  despair- 
ing Milwood.  Big  drops  of  sweat  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  her 
eyes  were  half  open,  her  teeth  gnashed  horribly,  and  her  whole 
frame  was  strongly  convulsed. 

At  length,  starting  up  in  the  bed,  she  seized  the  hand  of  a  by- 
stander, exclaiming,  in  a  voice  of  horror "  Am  I  in  hell?— Oh, 


188  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

torment  me  not,  my  father ! — do  not  you  inflict  the  tortures  ! — 
Barnwell — Barnwell — end  my  miseries  ! — Oh,  they  have  torn  my 
flesh  with  burning  pincers ! — Now  they  are  shooting  sparks  of  fire 
in  my  eyes — scorpions  fasten  on  my  breast — and  see,  my  murdered 
father  fixes  his  ghastly  eyes  on  me ! — Barnwell,  I  own  the  deed  : 
— thy  uncle's  bleeding  ghost  approaches  ! — Save  me — save  me ! — 
See,  they  bring  more  brands  of  fire — showers  of  fire  descend! — 
Oh,  my  heart  burns — it  burns — and  yet  I  to  not  die  !" 

A  shivering  fit  now  seized  her,  and  she  awoke.  Casting  her  eyes 
wildly  round  her,  by  degrees  she  recollected  her  situation.  Among 
the  prisoners,  who  stood  near  her,  was  a  clergyman  confined  for 
debt.  Viewing  the  horrors  of  her  mind,  he  was  prompted  to  offer 
her  some  consolation. 

"  Unhappy  woman  !"  said  he,  "  see  the  sad  consequences  of  guilt! 
As  yet  thy  terrors  are  only  imaginary  ;  may  they  prove  salutary, 
and  lead  you  to  seek,  by  heart-felt  penitence,  that  Christian  hope 
of  mercy,  which  alone  can  calm  your  mind  ! — Are  you  willing  I 
should  pray  with  you. 

"  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him — "  Mercy!"  cried  she.  "  Pen- 
itence ! — Pray  for  me  ! — To  whom  ?" 

"  To  your  Almighty  Judge !" 

"  There  is  not  an  Almighty  Judge — 'Tis  false,  old  man.  There 
is  not — cannot — no — no — there  cannot  be  another  world — or  if 
there  is,  why  am  I  tortured  with  the  thought  of  it — when,  if  there 
is — I — I — Oh!  no — no — do  not  say  there  is  another  world  !" 

"  Surely,  most  surely,  there  is,"  said  the  good  old  man,  with  a 
vehemence  that  made  her  tremble. 

She  struck  her  hand  violently  against  her  head "  If,  indeed, 

there  should,"  exclaimed  she — "horrible  thought!  I  dare  not 
think! — Oh,  if  you  have  any  pity  for  my  wretched  lot,  give  me 
some  potent  draught,  some  cordial,  that  will  drown  all  sense  of 
what  is  past — all  dread  of  what  may  come  !" 

The  worthy  minister  who  truly  merited  the  title  of  a  Christian 
priest,  exerted  every  effort  to  soothe  the  workings  of  despair.  He 
dismissed  the  idle  gazers  from  the  room,  and  was  in  the  act  of 
kneeling  to  offer  up  a  prayer,  when  the  poor  object  of  his  solici- 
tude shrieked  violently,  and  implored  him  to  desist. 

"  'Tis  torture — torture — torture  !"  cried  she  ;  "I  am  accursed, 
and  I  hate  all  good  !" 

Finding  his  intentions  increased  her  despair,  in  her  present  frame 
of  mind,  he  desisted,  in  the  hope  of  a  more  tranquil  moment.  By 
his  advice,  they  permitted  her  to  take  some  wine,  and  she,  once 
more,  seemed  to  sleep.  But  a  few  minutes,  however,  had  elapsed, 
ere  she  awoke  again,  under  the  same  impressions  of  horror  ! 

"  Mr.  Elderton,  the  clergyman,  had  not  left  tfie  room,  but  had 
employed  himself  in  silent  prayer.  Her  despair  now  rose  to  fury  ; 
her  expressions  were  horribly  blasphemous,  and  assistance  was 
necessary  to  keep  her  in  her  bed.  Her  exertions  were  fatal.  Tn 
the  paroxysm  of  her  despair  she  burst  a  blood  vessel ;  the  blood 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  189 

gushed  rapidly  from  her  mouth,  and,  notwithstanding  every  possi- 
ble assistance  was  instantly  procured,  before  the  sun  arose,  de- 
spairing she  expired ! 

At  break  of  day,  upon  visiting  Zelotti's  apartment,  the  keeper  of 
the  prison  discovered  he  had  taken  poison  the  preceding  night. 
He  had  not  undressed  himself,  and  his  corpse  lay  a  dreadful  spec- 
tacle, stretched  upon  the  floor.  A  scrap  of  paper  lay  near  him,  on 
which  were  scrawled  with  a  pencil  these  words,  barely  legible, 
supposed  to  have  been  written  after  he  had  drunk  the  poison  : — 
"  Milwood— there  is  a  God!  defy  him  not !— Zelotti." 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

What  if  this  cursed  hand 
Were  thicker  than  itself  with  brother's  blood, 
Is  there  not  rain  enough  in  the  sweet  heavens 
To  wash  it  white  as  snow  1 — SHAKSPERE. 

THE  worthy  clergyman,  who  had  witnessed  the  dreadful  death 
of  Milwood,  influenced  by  the  pure  motives  of  Christian  charity, 
determined  to  visit  the  fallen  victim  of  her  wiles.  Sad  change  had 
marked  the  face  of  Barnwell.  The  horror  of  guilt  had  marred  one 
of  the  finest  countenances  nature  ever  formed.  No  more  the  rosy 
glow  of  health  adorned  his  cheek  ;  no  more  the  smile  of  innocence 
and  peace  hung  on  his  lips  ;  no  longer  the  tranquillity,  that  once 
dwelt  in  his  bosom,  beamed  from  his  eyes !  Bitter  misery  had 
traced  its  sickly  characters  over  all  his  wasted  form.  At  the  en- 
trance of  Mr.  Elderton  he  started,  but  still  kept  his  eyes  on  the 
floor. 

"  I  have  in  traded,"  said  Mr.  Elderton,  "upon  hours  which,  1 
hope,  are  devoted  to  penitence,  to  announce  to  you  the  melancholy 
end  of " 

"  Oh,  God  !"  cried  Barnwell,  clasping  his  hands  together,  "  my 
mother — I  have  slain  my  mother!" 

"  No — no — no,"  said  Mr.  Elderton,  eager  to  undeceive  him ;  "I 
speak  of  the  unhappy  partners  of  your  guilt,  who  are  now  no  more. 
The  wretched  woman  died  by  the  bursting  of  a  blood  vessel  in  a 
paroxysm  of  despair,  and  the  man  has  poisoned  himself!" 

"  God  forgive  them!"  cried  Barnwell,  "God  forgive  them ! — 
Poor  Milwood!" 

Even  in  his  present  awful  situation,  a  pang  shot  through  his 
heart  when  he  heard  she  was  gone  forever ! 

"  You  mentioned  a  mother,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Elderton ;  "  have 
you  a  mother?" 

"  Oh,  spare  me,  T  beseech  you,  whoever  you  are,  spare  my  poor 
bursting  heart  the  anguish  of  that  thought !" 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Mrs.  Barnwell, 
Eliza,  and  Mr.  Sandall,  were  in  the  room.  The  rumour  of  Barn- 


190  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

well's  absconding  by  some  means  had  reached  them,  and  they 
immediately  followed  Sir  James  to  Ramsgate.  Soon  as  the  wretch- 
ed mother  saw  the  object  which  guilt  had  rendered  her  son,  when 
attempting  to  meet  her  his  fetters  grated  on  her  ears,  overcome  by 
the  horrid  vision,  she  sunk  senseless  on  the  floor.  Eliza  fainted  on 
the  bosom  of  her  brother,  and  the  prison  rung  with  the  imprecations 
of  Barnwell  on  his  own  guilty  head  ! 

By  the  direction  of  Mr.  Sandall,  whose  folly  had  permitted  the 
interview,  they  were  torn  asunder,  and  conveyed  home  to  the  house 
that  had  been  Mr.  Emery's.  The  shock  which  Mrs.  Barnwell  had 
received  was  severe,  and  its  effects,  even  when  her  senses  returned, 
confined  her  to  her  bed,  and  rendered  the  attendance  of  a  physician 
necessary.  Eh'za  who  loved  her  brother  almost  to  adoration  suf- 
fered an  inconceivable  pain  of  heart ;  but  her  youth  enabled  her  to 
sustain  the  blow  with  less  injury  to  her  health,  than  their  unhappy 
parent :  an  alarming  attack  of  the  asthma,  to  which  she  was  subject, 
occasioned  serious  apprehensions  of  her  life.  Though  the  dutiful 
and  affectionate  Eliza  would  not  quit  her  bed-side,  she  yet  divided 
her  painfully  anxious  thoughts  between  the  sick  couch  of  her  pa- 
rent, and  the  sad  destiny  of  her  brother. 

In  the  mean  time,  Barnwell  struggled  to  meet  his  fate  with  re- 
signation ;  and  if,  at  times,  the  horrors  that  surrounded  him  open- 
ed an  avenue  for  thoughts  of  suicide,  the  truly  pious  Elderton  was 
constantly  at  hand  to  administer  the  consolations  of  hope  to  his  de- 
spair. 

Some  days  passed,  during  which  the  remains  of  Sir  James  Barn- 
well  were  conveyed  to  his  late  seat,  and  interred.  Mrs.  Barnwell 
remained  confined  to  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  very  slender  hope  was 
entertained  of  her  recovery. 

The  unfortunate  victim  of  unlimited  confidence,  Mr.  Freeman, 
had  received  from  the  numerous  and  injured  creditors  of  his  house 
that  discriminating  generosity,  for  which  the  merchants  of  London 
are  celebrated  in  every  part  of  the  globe.  He  received  an  immedi- 
ate and  full  discharge,  upon  assigning  over  all  his  estates,  from 
which  an  annuity  of  six  hundred  pounds,  for  his  own  life  and  that 
of  his  daughter,  were  liberally  settled  upon  them  by  the  unanimous 
voice  of  the  creditors,  in  opposition  only  to  his  own  sincere  wishes 
to  the  contrary.  Mr.  Drudge  likewise  experienced  their  liberality  ; 
but  the  exasperation  of  the  majority  of  the  creditors  was  fully  dis- 
played in  their  conduct  to  Emery,  who,  abandoned  by  his  titled 
friends,  was  left  literally  destitute,  and  being  unable  to  procure  his 
certificate,  the  vengeance  of  several  pursued  him  so  far  as  to  termi- 
nate the  future  prospects  of  his  existence  with  the  gloomy  evils  of 
confinement. 

Such  was  the  situation  of  his  affairs  when  Mr.  Freeman  returned 
to  Ramsgate,  after  the  funeral  of  his  old  friend  Sir  James,  who 
had  left  him  his  executor.  The  greatest  part  of  his  estates  were 
bequeathed  to  his  wretched  nephew,  and,  in  failure  of  issue,  to  his 
sister  and  her  descendants.  Very  handsome  provision  was  made 


GEORGE     BARNWELL.  191 

for  Mrs.  Barnwell  and  Eliza,  and,  excepting  a  few  complimentary 
legacies,  no  part  of  his  property  was  bequeathed  out  of  the  family 
of  his  brother.  The  horrid  deed  of  Barnwell  received  a  still  deeper 
tint  of  horror  by  the  benevolent  intentions  thus  displayed. 

Not  the  combined  wealth  of  worlds  is  able  to  eradicate  the  cank- 
er speck  of  guilt,  or  prevent  that  course  of  consequence  which  nature 
has  decreed.  Never,  perhaps,  was  the  insufficiency  of  wealth  to 
make  the  heart  happy,  more  powerfully  proved  than  in  the  misera- 
ble Barnwell's! 

As  the  awful  day  of  public  trial  drew  near,  the  channels  of  grief 
flowed  in  more  painful  violence  through  the  heart  of  this  most 
wretched  family.  The  good  and  tender-hearted  Freeman  sympa- 
thized deeply  with  the  mourners,  and  stole  occasionally  a  thought 
from  the  melancholy  image  of  his  beloved  daughter,  bereft  of  reason, 
to  mingle  sorrow  with  them. 

Barnwell  had  particularly  requested  to  be  alone,  and  peremptori- 
ly refused  the  visits  of  all  but  the  pious  Elderton.  By  these  means 
he  gradually  prepared  his  mind  for  those  awful  scenes  which  he 
was  shortly  to  encounter.  Eliza,  whose  mind  was  considerably 
above  the  common  level,  calling  the  energies  of  reason  and  the 
hopes  of  religion  to  her  aid,  thus  tempered  the  sensibility  of  her 
heart  to  sustain  the  miseries  that  pressed  heavily  upon  her.  The 
following  letter  will  exhibit  the  state  of  her  mind. 

LETTER. 

1  Oh,  my  poor  brother  ! — Oh.  George  ! — how  shall  I  endure  this  greatest  of  calami- 
ties that  coultt  hare  befallen  me  ? — But  I  do  not  upbraid  you,  my  dear,  dear  brother  ! — 
no,  HO,  it  is  not  necessary  that  a  sister's  voice  should  add  cruel  reproofs  to  those  which 
conscience,  I  am  sure,  inflicts  ! — Oh,  could  that  sister's  blood  assuage  the  wounds  she 
sees,  .she  feels,  are  in  your  heart! — Oh,  no  ! — her  tears,  her  prayers,  are  vain  ! — The 
storm  of  passion,  in  which  that  heart  has  floated,  leaves  it  a  wreck  beyond  all  repara- 
tion! Tiiat  noble,  generous,  manly  heart — that  heart  which  was  our  boast,  our 

But  let  me  turn  from  the  painful  retrospect — to  what  ? — Oh,  mighty  God,  support  me  I 
— to  what  ? — To  the  sad,  solitary  cell  that  holds  thee,  that  dear,  loved  brother,  who 
has  often  clasped  me,  in  pure  transport,  to  his  fonder  breast !  to  those  chains,  whose 
weight  is  nothing  to  thy  limbs,  but  a  load  of  infamy  to  thy  once  great  soul! — Is  this  the 
spectacle  on  which  imagination  now  must  gaze  ?  Would  the  dreary  picture  finished 
here  ! — But,  ah  !  sad.  trembling'  culprit — how  wilt  thou  face  the  members  of  that  com- 
munity whose  laws  thou  hast  violated  ?  How  wilt  thou  meet  a  fellow-man's  offended 
countenance,  whose  very  nature  is  debase;!  by  a  crime  like  thine  ! 

"  These  are  torturiir.'  thoughts  ;  but  these  are  not  thy  keenest  sufferings  !  I  know 
how  often  the  reflection  of  a  mother's,  of  a  sister's  agonies  kindle  in  thy  breast !  thy 
brain  flames  fiercer  than  the  fires  of  Etna  !  But,  ah  !  poor  sufferer  !  even  this  is  not 
the  climix  of  thy  miseries — Imagination  tortures  thee  with  all  the  dreadful  apparatus 
of  a  public  ignominious  death  ;  but  there  behold  the  period  ! — In  the  shame,  in  the 
pain  of  that  hour,  my  loved,  though  fallen  brother,  view  the  consequences 'of  thy 
crimes,  and  Heaveai  strengthen  thee  *.o  meet  them  ! 

"  Now  droopiiiir  spirit,  rise  !  Beyond  that  gulf  a  sweetly-soothing  strain  lures  thy 
approach— Hope  beckons  thee  to  brighter  realms  !  No  more,  then,  let  the  agonized 
eight  be  limited  to  the  bounds  of  time  !  Endure  yet  a  little  longer  the  chequered 
scones  of  life,  where  passion  wars  with  reason,  and  the  benevolent  mind  trembles  to 
contemplate  the  oriffin  of  vice  and  woe  !  Behold  a  glorious  vision,  which  the  wonder- 
in;  soul  wakes  to  admit e,— a  DF.ITV  DISPLAYED!  Nor  fear  to  raise  thine  eye  !  Away 
with  terrors  of  imaginary  wrath — away  with  impious  expectations  of  retaliating  fury  ! 
— Doubt  not  that  God  is  Love,  ami  when  necessity  demands  no  more  evil,  then  from 
the  sourcn  of  love,  shall  flow  UNMIXGLED  GOOD  ! 


"May  peace  spread  her  wings  o'er  thy  miud,  prays 

"Your  affectionate  sister, 


E.  B." 


192  GEORGE     BARNWELL. 

The  solemn  moment  now  arrived,  that  placed  Barn  well  at  the 
bar  of  temporal  justice.  The  court  was  crowded  with  spectators, 
and,  as  his  fatal  story  was  generally  known,  there  was  scarcely  an 
individual  present,  whose  eye  did  not  testify  the  compassion  of  his 
heart.  The  pale  and  trembling  culprit  pleaded  guilty  in  a  voice 
barely  audible  !  The  judge  pronounced  the  awful  sentence  of 
death  in  the  usual  words,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  Barnwell  ex- 
claimed— "  Oh,  God  !"  placed  his  hands  before  his  eyes,  and  was 
removed  from  the  bar. 

Conveyed  to  the  cell  appropriated  to  the  wretched  victims  of 
death,  he  was  left  to  his  own  reflections,  and,  having  solicited  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  he  committed  several  of  his  thoughts  to  writing  :— 

"  Saturday  Evening,  9  o'clock,   ' 

"  I  am  condemned  to  die — I  know  the  very  hour  of  my  dissolution — On  Monday 
morning  at  8  o'clock  I  shall — Why  do  I  still  feel  this  weight  of  shame  ?  Why  is  the 
ignominy  of  death  even  yet  more  painful  to  nie  than  any  apprehensions  of  its  tor- 
tures !  A  spectacle  !  a  public  punishment! — a  warning  exhibition  to  the  wicked  of 
society  ! — Oh,  my  poor,  expiring  mother,  was  it  for  this  yon  suffered  the  anguish  of 
my  birth  1— was  it  for  this,  with  anxious,  fond  attention,  you  hung  over  my  cradle,  aud 
watched  the  very  moment  of  my  infant  wants  !  Was  it  for  this  most  shameful  end,  oh, 
spirit  of  my  sainted  father,  for  this,  that  you,  with  the  same  tender  vigilance,  gazed  on 
the  opening  intellect,  nurtured  each  growing  virtue,  and  rooted  out  the  early  weeds  of 
vice  ! 

"Oh,  hear  me  on  my  knees,  thou  sacrcJ  shade,  and  send  some  ministering  angel  to 
calm  the  soul  of  thy  afflicted,  lost,  and  guilty  son  ! — Oh,  no! — I  see  thee  frown — I  see 
thee  point  a  bloody  dagger  to  thy  brother's  grave,  and  hear  the  host  of  heaven  shriek 
abhorrence  also  foul  a  crime  ! — Father,  I  own  it — 'twas  this  parricidal  hand — but  re- 
collection sickens  at  the  thought — my  brain  is  giddy,  and  my  heart's  blood  chills  with 
horror  at  the  bare  idea  !  Tell  me,  then,  some  holy  sage,  oh,  tell  me,  how  shall  ever 
peace  again  be  wooed  within  this  bosom  ? 

"How  could  I  do  it ! — can  it  be  possible  ! — -was  it  this  very  beart,  this  same  mind 
that  now  shudders  at  the  memory  of  the  act,  th:it  could  devise  a  mischief,  which,  were 
it  to  do  again,  I  think  no  power  on  earth,  nor  fiend  of  hell,  could,  by  all  its  tortures, 
force  me  to  commit  ! — Murder  ! — Oh,  God  !  have  I  not  pitied  the  sacrifice  of  a  lamb  to 
man's  necessities?  Have  I  not  often  saved  a  captive  fly  from  the  torturing  pastimes 
of  my  school  follows  ?  And  yet  I  have  committed  murder  ! — and  on  whom — a  fellow- 
creature  1 — worse — a  benefactor  ! — 'Twas  a  devil's  blow  ! 

"  Oh,  Milwood  !  dare  I,  in  such  a  solemn  moment,  so  near,  so  very  near  the  dread- 
ful entrance  of  eternity — dare  I  call  back  the  spirit  that  has  flitted  over  the  gulf  that 
is  before  me,  bid  it  appear  in  that  form  of  beauty  that  kindled  the  flame  of  lust  in  ray 
bosom  ?  Dare  I  inquire  how,  or  from  whence,  those  tumults  sprung,  that  hurried  on 
the  soul  to  its  destruction  ! — Oh,  vast  rasenrch  !  chaos  of  inquiry  ! — 'Till  thy  form  at- 
tracted me,  till  thy  touch,  intoxicated  me — Oh,  fatal  beauty !  I  could  not  have  allowed 
even  a  thought  of  injury  to  a  fellow-creature  admission  to  my  heart!  What,  then, 
wert  thou,  oh,  wondrous  power,  what  was  the  nature  of  that  potent  influence,  which 
thy  charms  shed  over  my  soul,  that  it  could  change  the  soft  and  gentle  influences  of 
compassion,  that  ever  played  around  my  heart,  into  the  maddened  impulse  of  a  parri- 
cide ? — Say,  was  it  passion  V 

As  Barnwell  wrote  the  last  sentence,  the  pious  Mr.  Elderton  en- 
tered the  cell,  and,  casting  his  eye  over  his  paper,  caught  the  ques- 
tion.— "  Yes,  my  young  friend,"  said  he,  "  'twas  passion  ;  but  ask 
thyself,  if,  in  the  composition  of  our  natures,  passion  has  no  anti- 
dote? Where  was  the  voice  of  reason,  when  first  the  subtle 
tempter  wooed  thee  to  thy  ruin?" 

"  Stifled,"  said  Barnwell,  "  by  the  stronger  cries  of  passion." 
"  Granted,"  said  Mr.  Elderton  ;  "  but  passion's  boisterous  breath 
became  at  length  exhausted,  and  conscience  then  was  heard  ! — Ah, 


GEORGE     BARN  WELL.  193 

poor  friend  !"  continued  he,  taking  him  affectionately  by  the  hand, 
"  had  you  but  listened  then,  though  you  had  sinned,  yet  how  far 
short  would  you  have  stopped  of  your  present  depth  of  guilt  !  But 
I  wonder  not,  when  I  contemplate  the  uncommon  talents  of  the  se- 
ducer, the  frailties  of  nature,  and  the  inexperience  of  your  heart. 
Had  you  but  revealed  your  situation,  the  strong  foundation  of  all 
Milwood's  plans  must  have  vanished,  and  you  would  have  been 
saved.  Fatal  reverse  ! — Oh,  may  the  dread  example  operate  with 
every  hesitating  youth,  who,  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  secret 
shame,  longs,  yet  dreads,  to  confide  his  sorrows  and  his  errors  in 

some  pitying  breast. And  may  each  individual,  honoured  with 

the  name  of  parent,  or  of  guardian,  who  hears  thy  woful  story, 
aim,  with  increasing  zeal,  to  WIN  THE  CONFIDENCE  OF  YOUTHFUL 
HEARTS  !  May  they  reflect  of  what  warring  compounds  human 
hearts  are  framed,  reflect  how  much  at  variance  with  the  institutions 
of  society  are  many  of  our  passions ! — And  God  forgive  the  man, 
who,  by  a  COLD  FROWN  at  venial  errors,  shall  DRIVE  HIS  SON  TO 

HIDE     THE     WEAKNESS     OF     HIS     NATURE     IN    AN    ALIEN'S    BREAST  ! 

But  let  us  turn  from  a  painful  retrospect  to  scenes  where  Christian 
hope  points  our  attention." 

Fortunately  for  Barnwell,  Mr.  Elderton  was  no  bigot ;  he  la- 
boured not  to  bend  his  penitent  to  the  feigned  belief  of  controverted 
doctrines  ;  he  laboured  not  to  exchange  the  principles  of  reason  for 
Christian  iaith,  but  aimed  to  strengthen  the  hopes  of  the  former,  by 
the  assurances  of  the  latter.  He  succeeded,  and  the  last  thoughts 
of  Barnwell  were  thus  expressed,  with  a  tranquillity  that  consoles 
the  heart,  which  pities  his  sad  end,  and  bows  the  spirit  that  would 
question  the  JUSTICE  of  that  OMNIPOTENCE,  that  permitted  his  fall. 

Sunday,  midnight. 

"A  few  more  fleeting  hours! — How  awful  rolls  the  echo  of  the  midnight  bell  along 
these  dark  anil  dismal  vaults! — Solemn,  silent  hour! — How  many  sons  of  care  now 
sleep,  lightened  of  their  anxious  loads! — I,  too,  shall  shortly  sleep — but  they  shall  wake 
again  to  care — again  become  the  sport  of  hopes  and  fears  ! — Shall  /,  too,  wake  ? — Say, 
can  the  narrow  limits  of  an  earthly  life  bound  the  existence  of  the  aspiring  soul !  O, 
trembling  inmate  of  this  frail  form,  prepare  !  thy  present  tenement  in  a  few  hours  falls, 
forever  falls ! — Prepare  to  wing  thy  flight,  see  brighter  realms  appear,  and  kindred 
spirits  wait  to  waft  thee  to  their  blest  abode !  I'll  think  no  more  of  earth,  then  ! — 
Mother — sister — friends — and  if  I  have  a  foe — all,  all  farewell!  Seek  not  to  know  why 
Heaven  permitted  murder,  or  how  my  arm  has  done  a  deed,  at  which  my  heart  recoils ! 
Kvil  is  in  the  world  ;  and  man's  best  employ  is  to  avoid  its  certain  consequences  as 
much  as  possible  himself,  and,  if  he  have  benevolence  of  heart,  study  to  ameliorate  its 
sad  effects  on  others.  There  is,  there  must  be,  a  recompense  for  virtue,  oft  denied 
here,  since  even  guilty  wretches,  like  myself,  can  feel  a  hope,  that  sustains  the  soul  at 
the  approach  of  ignominious  death  ! — a  hope  not  to  be  defined — a  hope  beyond  their 
comprehension  who  do  not  feel  its  influence.  Yet  is  it  not  less  real,  less  worth  research  ; 
for,  in  the  agonies  of  dissolution,  what  sounds  so  soothing  to  the  soul,  as  the  sweet  voice 
that  whispers — 'There  is  another  and  a  better  world  !' " 

These  were  the  last  words  he  wrote.  The  hour  of  suffering,  of 
shame,  of  death  arrived,  and  Barnwell  having  penitently  yielded  to 
the  consequences  of  his  crimes,  his  liberated  spirit  winged  its 
trembling  flight  to  the  bright  throne  of  mercy ! 

The  pangs  a  mother  felt  at  this  sad  catastrophe  who  can  de- 


194  GEORGE     BARNWELt. 

scribe  !  Happily,  they  were  short — soon  the  welcome  herald, 
Death,  arrived,  and  changed  those  temporal  scenes,  a  son's  crimes 
had  rendered  painful,  for  views  of  bliss  no  clouds  can  ever  darken! 
Maria,  too,  fell,  like  a  blighted  blossom,  to  the  earth,  and  with  her 
last  sigh  mingled  the  name  of  Barn  well. 

The  worthy  Mr.  Freeman  met  the  event  with  calm,  yet  heart- 
felt sorrow.  The  painful  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  reserved  for  this, 
the  evening  of  his  life,  had  bowed  his  mind  ;  and  having  stripped 
him  of  this  his  last  hold  on  earthly  bliss,  he  endured,  with  resigna- 
tion, an  existence  of  tranquillity,  almost  without  a  hope  or  an 
anxiety ! 

Eliza,  the  sister  of  Barnwell,  became  his  charge,  and  if  ever  a 
temporal  concern  floated  in  his  mind,  it  was  on  her  account.  By 
the  recent  sad  events,  she  acquired  the  very  large  property  of  her 
late  uncle,  and  retired  with  her  guardian  to  his  residence.  Sorrow 
oft  visited  her  in  this  retirement,  when  memory  mused  on  melan- 
choly scenes  gone  by.  Yet  Eliza  struggled  with  regret :  she  had 
imbibed  some  early  lessons  of  sound  and  pure  philosophy,  the  ad- 
vantages of  which  now  shone  conspicuous.  She  contemplated, 
with  earnestness,  her  situation,  and  the  strongest  feeling  of  her 
heart  was  a  dread,  that  she  should  misapply  the  loan  of  wealth, 
which  Heaven  had  entrusted  to  her  care. 

Her  next  concern  was,  to  render  Mr.  Freeman  as  happy  as  her 
society  and  means  could  make  him,  and  she  aimed  with  zealous  dil- 
igence to  amuse  his  reflection  from  the  past.  The  situation  of  the 
Miss  Emerys  and  their  mother  attracted  her  attention,  and  indulged 
her  with  an  opportunity  of  exercising  that  benevolence  which  was 
the  chief  trait  in  her  character.  With  the  consent  of  Mr.  Free- 
man, she  afforded  them  an  asylum  in  her  house,  and  studied  to 
make  their  dependence  as  little  felt  as  possible.  She  frequently 
enabled  the  daughters,  by  her  generosity,  to  remit  those  comforts 
to  their  father  which  ameliorated  the  horrors  of  confinement ;  and 
she  looked  forward  to  the  termination  of  her  minority  for  the  pleas- 
ing ability  of  placing  them  beyond  the  fear  of  dependence,  by  the 
settlement  of  an  annuity  that  would  ensure  them,  with  frugality, 
the  decencies,  though  not  the  luxuries,  of  life. 

In  such  delightful  employ  we  leave  Eliza,  whose  discriminating 
generosity  afforded  her  many  heartfelt  pleasures,  and  the  exercise 
of  which  was  her  constant  resource,  whenever  memory  pointed  to 
the  consequences  of  CONCEALED  ERRORS  in  the  melancholy  fate  of 
her  brother. 


v'V 


ft. 


;SB  UBRMIV 


. 


